THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 


Peter  Scott 


y 


THE     NOVELS    AND    ROMANCES 

OF 

EDWARD   BULWER  LYTTON 

(LORD    LYTTON) 


i^anDp  Eibrarp  o^tiition 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING 


The  stranger  opened  the  door  of  the  chaise. 

Night  and  Morning. 


frv^ 

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.  THE  NOVELS 

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AND  •  ROMANCES 

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^^ 

EDWARD  •  BULWER 

^^' 

LYTTON 

f^g 

(LORD  LYTTON) 

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NIGHT    AND 
MORNING 

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W^i^^^^ 

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BOSTON 

LITTLE  •  hROWN 
and    COMPANY 


Copyright,  1S93,  1807, 
Bv  Little,  Brown,  and  Company, 


John  Wilson  and  Son,  Camhuidge,  U.S.A. 


PR 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

PART  FIRST. 


INTRODUCTION. 

The  self-reliance  of  Bulwer  is  strikingly  shown 
by  the  fact  that,  in  an  age  when  the  novel  of  char- 
acter was  the  prevailing  form  of  fiction,  he  steadily 
adhered  to  the  novel  of  incident,  which  by  persist- 
ent painstaking  he  brought  to  a  high  degree  of 
excellence.  In  creative  power,  —  the  power  of  im- 
parting individuality  to  one's  personages,  which  en- 
abled Scott,  Miss  Austen,  Dickens,  and  George  Eliot 
to  people  the  world  of  imagination  with  men  and 
women  of  whom  we  think  and  talk  as  beings  of 
actual  flesh  and  blood,  —  Bulwer  is  surpassed  by  all 
these  writers.  But  if  we  pass  from  this  region  to 
those  ov^ermastering  passions  which  sway  men  in  all 
ases  and  countries,  we  enter  a  realm  where  Bulwer 
has  "  no  rival  near  his  throne."  Love,  hate,  ambi- 
tion, avarice,  vengefulness,  —  all  the  grand  eternal 
passions  which  ennoble  or  disgrace  human  nature, 
—  he  has  depicted  with  a  master's  hand. 

Every  one  who  has  tried  his  hand  at  this  part  of 
the  novelist's  work  knows  that  it  is  the  most  diffi- 
cult which  the  literary  artist  has  to  perform.    There 


2227567 


viii  INTRODUCTION. 

is  danger  on  the  one  hand  of  transgressing  the  real- 
ity, on  the  other  of  falling  short  of  it ;  and  le  juste 
milieu  is  not  easily  hit.  But  it  is  just  here  that 
Buhver  shows  his  mastery.  He  even  surpasses  "  the 
Wizard  of  the  North,"  who  usually  depicts  extreme 
passion  not  directly,  but  by  its  effects.  Like  the 
ancient  painter,  who  threw  a  veil  over  the  face 
whose  workings  he  felt  himself  unable  to  portray, 
Scott  veils  the  passion  which  he  cannot  adequately 
depict.  Not  so  with  our  author,  who  in  such  crucial 
situations  is  always  at  home.  Striking  illustrations 
of  this  are  the  scenes  described  in  Chapters  X.  and 
XX.  of  the  present  work,  and  especially  in  Chapter 
XV.,  where  Lilburne  throws  into  the  fire  the  paper 
"on  which  rests  Philip  Beaufort's  fate,"  and  which  is 
snatched  by  Fanny,  who  is  rescued  by  Philip  from 
the  clutch  of  Lilburne.  Another  striking  illustra- 
tion is  the  scene  in  "  Ernest  Maltravers "  that  fol- 
lows the  meeting  of  Maltravers  with  Cesarini,  after 
the  former  had  discovered  the  base  forgery  by  which 
the  Itnlian  liad  caused  the  estrangement  and  ulti- 
mately the  death  of  Florence  Lascelles.  In  the  de- 
scription of  this  scene,  which  i'=;  a  masterpioc?  of  its 
kind,  there  is  no  avoidance  of  the  difficulties,  but 
they  are  grappled  with  fearlessly,  although  the  writer 
knows  that 

"Si  pauhuii  a  suinmo  decessit,  vergit  ad  imum." 

"Night  and  Morning,"  the  aptness  or  significance 
of  whose  title  it  is  not  easy  to  perceive,  is  a  tale  of 


INTRODUCTION.  IX 

less  absorbing  interest  than  some  of  its  predecessors, 
yet  it  is  full  of  variety,  and  some  of  its  meludramatic 
scenes,  in  which  it  abounds,  are  in  the  author's  best 
vein.     Philip  Beaufort,  the  hero  of  the  story,  tlie 
proud-spirited,  irascible  young  man  v^^ho,  along  with 
his  tiger-like  temper,  "  had  in  the  sleek  hues  and 
sinewy  symmetry  of  his   frame   something  of  the 
tiger's  beauty,"  is  vividly  portrayed,  but  engages  the 
reader's  sympathies   less,  we   think,  than   most  of 
Bulwer's  heroes.     Fanny,  the  half-idiot  girl,  Gaw- 
trey's   idol,  —  the  Undine  whose   slumbering   soul 
gradually  awakens   under  the   magic   intluence   of 
love,  —  is  a  beautiful  creation,  worthy  of  the  author 
of   Sophy  Waife  and  Evelyn  Cameron.      Physiolo- 
gists may  object  to  it  as  unreal,  but  the  imaginative 
reader  at  once  feels  its  charm.     The  most  original 
and  powerfully  drawn  of  the  dramatis  personce  is 
Gawtrey,  the  consummate  knave,  possessed  of  a  co- 
lossal frame  and  robust  animal  spirits,  at  one  time 
choleric,  impetuous,  fierce,  at  another  full  of  pleas- 
antry, kindly  impulses,  and  generous  affections, — 
self-described  as  "  the  prince  of  good-for-nothings, 
with  ten  thousand  aliases,  and  as  many  strings  to 
my  bow."     It  would  be  hard  to  name  a  scene  in  all 
Bulwer's  novels  more  skilfully  depicted  or  of  more 
thrilling  interest  than  that  in  the  coiners'  gloomy 
vault  in  Paris,  where  Gawtrey  and  his  confederates 
are  joined  by  the  most  skilful  forger  of  the  day, — 
a  diminutive  man  in  a  mechanic's  blouse,  with  thin, 
sandy  hair,  and  a  patch  over  one  eye,  —  who,  amid 


X  INTKODUCTION. 

loud  applause,  exhibits  some  brilliant  specimens  of 
his  workmanship,  but,  after  a  sharp  encounter  of 
wits  with  Gawtrey,  is  discovered  by  the  keen-eyed 
captain  of  the  gang  to  be  the  chief  of  the  Paris  de- 
tectives, and  is  instantly  seized  by  the  throat  by 
the  master-coiner,  and  dashed  along  the  table  till 
he  falls  a  lifeless  and  distorted  mass. 

Next  in  interest  to  Gawtrey,  whose  tragic  death 
we  half  lament  on  account  of  the  rogue's  redeeming 
qualities,  —  his  humor,  rough  kindliness,  and  tender 
love  for  Fanny,  —  is  the  object  of  his  intense  and  un- 
dvin2  hate,  Lord  Lilburne.  This  man,  whose  moral 
features  are  powerfully  depicted,  is  one  of  those 
liateful  characters  which  are  to  be  found  only  in 
the  higher  classes  of  society,  and  which  Bulwer  de- 
lights to  gibbet,  —  a  cold-blooded  voluptuary  and 
embodiment  of  selfishness,  a  callous,  conscienceless 
wretch,  incapable  of  remorse,  and  capable  of  any 
villainy  which  the  irreproachable  respectability  of 
a  high  name,  a  splendid  mansion,  and  a  rent-roll 
without  a  flaw,  may  enable  a  peer  of  the  realm  to 
practise  with  immunity  from  the  clutches  of  the  law. 
He  is  a  more  repulsive  villain  than  even  Vargrave 
in  "  The  Disowned,"  who  has,  at  least,  many  pleas- 
ant social  qualities.  In  Robert  Beaufort,  "  the  man 
of  decorous  phrase  and  bloodless  action,"  we  have  a 
graphic  portraiture  of  a  man  not  uncommon  in  old 
and  highly  civilized  communities,  the  systematic 
time-server,  bland  and  plausible,  who  never  loses 
his  poise  or  is  betrayed  into  any  excesses,  —  one  of 


INTRODUCTION.  XI 

that  "venerable  corps"  whose  lives  Burns  has  com- 
pared to  a  well-gomg  mill  supplied  with  store  of 
water,  whose  machinery  goes  on  in  one  unvarying 
clack,  and  whose  hopper  is  constantly  ebbing  but 
never  exhausted.  Blessed  by  fortune  with  a  serene, 
well-ordered  life,  free  from  all  harassing  cares,  the 
livelier  and  more  errant  feelings  all  stilled  down  into 
torpidity,  they  have  little  temptation  to  wrong-doing, 
and  little  charity  for  those  who,  having  it,  are  led 
astray.  Not  less  vivid  is  the  picture  of  the  traitor 
Birnie,  with  his  pale-blue  vulture  eye  and  stealthy 
watchfulness,  his  noiseless,  cat-like  footstep,  —  from 
his  slavery  to  whom,  due  to  a  knowledge  of  his 
crimes,  Gavvtrey  frees  himself  by  sending  a  pistol- 
ball  through  the  wretch's  brain. 

"  Xight  and  Morning  "  was  originally  published 
in  London  in  1841. 

It  was  translated  into  French  by  Madame  Am- 
broise  Tardieu,  and  published  at  Paris  in  1876,  in 
two  volumes  Smo,  by  M.  Coulommiers,  under  the 
title  of  "  Jour  et  Nuit ;  ou  Heur  et  Malheur."  An- 
other translation,  in  two  volumes  Smo,  was  pub- 
lished in  Paris  in  1879,  in  the  "  Bibliotheque  ties 
meillcurs  romans  Strangers." 

W.  M. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1845. 


Much  has  been  written  by  critics,  especially  by  those 
in  Germany  (the  native  land  of  criticism),  upon  the 
important  question,  whether  to  please  or  to  instruct 
should  be  the  end  of  fiction,  —  whether  a  moral  purpose 
is  or  is  not  in  harmony  with  the  undidactic  spirit  per- 
ceptible in  the  higher  works  of  the  imagination:  and 
the  general  result  of  the  discussion  has  been  in  favor  of 
those  who  have  contended  that  moral  design,  rigidly  so 
called,  should  be  excluded  from  the  aims  of  the  poet; 
that  his  art  should  regard  only  the  beautiful,  and  be 
contented  with  the  indirect  moral  tendencies,  which  can 
never  fail  the  creation  of  the  beautiful.  Certainly,  in 
fiction,  to  interest,  to  please,  and  sportively  to  elevate; 
to  take  man  from  the  low  passions,  and  the  miserable 
troubles  of  life,  into  a  higher  region;  to  beguile  weary 
and  selfish  pain ;  to  excite  a  generous  sorrow  at  vicissi- 
tudes not  his  own ;  to  raise  the  passions  into  sympathy 
with  heroic  struggles;  and  to  admit  the  soul  into  that 
serener  atmosphere  from  which  it  rarely  returns  to  ordi- 
nary existence,  without  some  memory  or  association 
which  ought  to  enlarge  the  domain  of  thought  and  exalt 


xiv  PKEFACE. 

the  motives  of  action,  —  such,  without  other  moral  result 
or  object,  may  satisfy  the  poet,^  and  constitute  the  high- 
est and  most  vmiversal  morality  he  can  effect.  But,  sub- 
ordinate to  this,  which  is  not  the  duty,  but  the  necessity 
of  all  fiction  that  outlasts  the  hour,  the  writer  of  imagi- 
nation may  well  permit  to  himself  other  purposes  and 
objects,  taking  care  that  they  be  not  too  sharply  defined, 
and  too  obviously  meant  to  contract  the  poet  into  the 
lecturer,  —  the  fiction  into  the  homily.  The  delight  in 
"  Shylock  "  is  not  less  vivid  for  the  humanity  it  latently 
but  profoundly  incidcates ;  the  healthful  merriment  of  the 
"  Tartuffe  "  is  not  less  enjoyed  for  the  exposure  of  the 
hypocrisy  it  denounces.  We  need  not  demand  from 
Shakespeare  or  from  Moliere  other  morality  than  that 
which  genius  unconsciously  throws  around  it,  —  the  nat- 
ural light  which  it  reflects ;  but,  if  some  great  principle 
which  guides  us  practically  in  the  daily  intercourse  with 
men  becomes  in  the  general  lustre  more  clear  and  more 
pronounced,  we  gain  doubly,  by  the  general  tendency 
and  the  particular  result. 

Long  since,  in  searching  for  new  regions  in  the  art 
to  which  I  am  a  servant,  it  seemed  to  me  that  they 
might  be  found  lying  far,  and  rarely  trodden,  beyond 
that  range  of  conventional  morality  in  which  novelist 
after  novelist  had  intrenched  himself,  —  amongst  those 
subtle  recesses  in  the  ethics  of  human  life  in  which 
truth  and  falsehood  dwell  undisturbed  and  unseparated. 
The  vast  and  dark  poetry  around  us  —  the  poetry  of 

1  I  use  the  word  poet  in  its  proper  sense,  as  applicable  to  any 
writer,  whether  in  verse  or  prose,  who  invents  or  creates. 


PREFACE.  XV 

modern  civilization  and  daily  existence  —  is  shut  out 
from  us  in  much,  by  the  shadowy  giants  of  prejudice 
and  fear.  He  who  would  arrive  at  the  Fairy  Land, 
must  face  the  phantoms.  Betimes  I  set  myself  to  the 
task  of  investigating  the  motley  world  which  our  pro- 
gress in  humanity  has  attained,  caring  little  what  mis- 
representation I  incurred,  what  hostility  I  provoked, 
in  searching  through  a  devious  labyrinth  for  the  foot- 
tracks  of  truth. 

In  the  pursuit  of  this  object,  I  am,  not  vainly,  con- 
scious that  I  have  had  my  influence  on  my  time,  —  that 
I  have  contributed,  though  humbly  and  indirectly,  to  the 
benefits  which  public  opinion  has  extorted  from  govern- 
ments and  laws.  While  (to  content  myself  with  a  single 
example)  the  ignorant  or  malicious  were  decrying  the 
moral  of  "Paul  Clifford,"  I  consoled  myself  with  per- 
ceiving that  its  truths  had  stricken  deep,  —  that  many, 
whom  formal  essays  might  not  reach,  were  enlisted  by 
the  picture  and  the  popular  force  of  fiction  into  the  ser- 
vice of  that  large  and  catholic  humanity  which  frankly 
examines  into  the  causes  of  crime,  which  ameliorates 
the  ills  of  society  by  seeking  to  amend  the  circumstances 
by  which  they  are  occasioned,  and  commences  the  great 
work  of  justice  to  mankind,  by  proportioning  the  pun- 
ishment to  the  offence.  That  work,  I  know,  had  its 
share  in  the  wise  and  great  relaxation  of  our  criminal 
code ;  it  has  had  its  share  in  results  yet  more  valuable, 
because  leading  to  more  comprehensive  reforms, — namely, 
in  the  courageous  facing  of  the  ills  which  the  mock  de- 
corum of  timidity  would  shun  to  contemplate,  but  which, 


XVI  PREFACE. 

till  fairly  fronted,  in  the  spirit  of  practical  Christianity, 
sap  daily,  more  and  more,  the  wails  in  which  blind  in- 
dolence would  protect  itself  from  restless  misery  and 
rampant  hunger.  For  it  is  not  till  art  has  told  the  un- 
thmking  that  nothing  (rightly  treated)  is  too  low  for 
its  breath  to  vivify,  and  its  wings  to  raise,  that  the  herd 
awaken  from  their  chronic  lethargy  of  contempt,  and  the 
lawgiver  is  compelled  to  redress  what  the  poet  has  lifted 
into  esteem.  In  thus  enlarging  the  boundaries  of  the 
novelist,  from  trite  and  conventional  to  untrodden  ends,  I 
have  seen,  not  with  the  jealousy  of  an  author,  but  with 
the  pride  of  an  originator,  that  I  have  served  as  a  guide 
to  later  and  abler  writers,  both  in  England  and  abroad. 
If  at  times,  while  imitating,  they  have  mistaken  me,  I 
am  not  answerable  for  their  errors;  or  if,  more  often, 
they  have  improved  where  they  borrowed,  I  am  not  en- 
vious of  their  laurels.  They  owe  me  at  least  this,  that 
I  prepared  the  way  for  their  reception,  and  that  they 
would  have  been  less  popular  and  more  misrepresented, 
if  the  outcry  which  bursts  upon  the  first  researches  into 
new  directions,  had  not  exhausted  its  noisy  vehemence 
upon  me. 

In  this  novel  of  "  Night  and  Morning  "  I  have  had 
various  ends  in  view, — subordinate,  I  grant  to  the 
higher  and  more  durable  morality  which  belongs  to 
the  ideal,  and  instructs  us  playfully  while  it  interests, 
in  the  passions,  and  through  the  heart.  First :  to  deal 
fearlessly  with  that  universal  unsoundness  in  social  jus- 
tice which  makes  distinctions  so  marked  and  iniquitous 
between  vice  and  crime,  —  namely,  between  the  corrupting 


PREFACE.  XVU 

habits  and  the  violent  act,  which  scarce  touches  the 
former  with  the  Hghtest  twig  in  the  fasces,  which  lifts 
against  the  latter  the  edge  of  the  lictor's  axe.  Let  a 
child  steal  an  apple  in  sport,  let  a  starveling  steal  a  roll 
in  despair,  and  law  conducts  them  to  the  prison,  for  evil 
commune  to  mellow  them  for  the  gibbet.  But  let  a  man 
spend  one  apprenticeship  from  youth  to  old  age  in  vice ; 
let  him  devote  a  fortune,  perhaps  colossal,  to  the  whole- 
sale demoralization  of  his  kind,  —  and  he  may  be  sur- 
rounded with  the  adulation  of  the  so-called  virtuous,  and 
be  served  upon  its  knee  by  that  lackey,  the  modern 
world !  I  say  not  that  law  can,  or  that  law  should  reach 
the  vice  as  it  does  the  crime ;  but  I  say  that  opinion  may 
be  more  than  the  servile  shadow  of  law.  I  impress  not 
here,  as  in  "  Paul  Clifford, "  a  material  moral  to  work  its 
effect  on  the  journals,  at  the  hustings,  through  constitu- 
ents, and  on  legislation :  I  direct  myself  to  a  channel  less 
active,  more  tardy,  but  as  sure,  —  to  the  conscience  that 
reigns,  elder  and  superior  to  all  law,  in  men's  hearts 
and  souls ;  I  utter  boldly  and  loudly  a  truth,  if  not  all 
untold,  murmured  feebly  and  falteringly  before,  —  sooner 
or  later  it  will  find  its  way  into  the  judgment  and  the 
conduct,  and  shape  out  a  tribunal  which  requires  not 
robe  or  ermine. 

Secondly :  In  this  work  I  have  sought  to  lift  the  mask 
from  the  timid  selfishness  which  too  often  with  us  bears 
the  name  of  respectability.  Purposely  avoiding  all 
attraction  that  may  savor  of  extravagance,  patiently  sub- 
duing every  tone  and  every  hue  to  the  aspect  of  those 
whom  we  meet  daily  in  our  thoroughfares,  I  have  shown 


XVlll  PREFACE. 

ill  Roliert  Beaufort  the  man  of  decorous  phrase  and 
bloodless  action,  —  the  systematic  self -server,  —  in  whom 
the  world  forgive  the  lack  of  all  that  is  generous,  warm, 
and  noble,  in  order  to  respect  the  passive  acquiescence  in 
metliodical  conventions  and  hollow  forms.  And  how 
common  such  men  are  with  us  in  this  century,  and  how 
inviting  and  how  necessary  their  delmeation  may  be  seen 
in  this,  —  that  the  popular  and  pre-eminent  observer  of 
the  age  in  which  we  live  has  since  placed  their  prototype 
in  vigorous  colors  upon  imperishable  canvas.^ 

There  is  yet  another  object  with  which  I  have  iden- 
tified my  tale.  I  trust  that  I  am  not  insensible  to  such 
advantages  as  arise  from  the  diffusion  of  education  really 
sound,  and  knowledge  really  available ;  for  these ,  as  the 
right  of  my  countrymen,  I  have  contended  always.  But 
of  late  years  there  has  been  danger  that  what  ought  to 
be  an  important  truth  may  be  perverted  into  a  pestilent 
fallacy.  Whether  for  rich  or  for  poor,  disappointment 
must  ever  await  the  endeavor  to  give  knowledge  without 
labor,  and  experience  without  trial.  Cheap  literature 
and  popular  treatises  do  not  in  themselves  suffice  to  fit 
the  nerves  of  man  for  the  strife  below,  and  lift  his  aspira- 
tions in  healthful  confidence  above.  He  who  seeks  to 
divorce  toil  from  knowledge,  deprives  knowledge  of  its 
most  valuable  property,  —  the  strengthening  of  the  mind 
by  exercise.  We  learn  what  really  braces  and  elevates 
us  only  in  proportion  to  the  effort  it  costs  us.  Nor  is  it 
in  books  alone,  nor  in  books  chiefly,  that  we  are  made 

1  Need  I  say  that  I  allude  to  the  "  Pecksniff  "  of  Mr.  Dickens  ? 


PKEFACE.  XIX 

conscious  of  our  strength  as  men ;  life  is  the  great  school- 
master, experience  the  mighty  volume.  He  who  has 
made  one  stern  sacrifice  of  self,  has  acquired  more  than 
he  will  ever  glean  from  the  odds-and-ends  of  popular 
philosophy;  and  the  man  the  least  scholastic,  may  be 
more  robust  in  the  power  that  is  knowledge,  and 
approach  nearer  to  the  Arch-Seraphim,  than  Bacon  him- 
self, if  he  cling  fast  to  two  simple  maxims,  "  Be  honest  in 
temptation,  and  in  adversity  believe  in  God."  Such 
moral,  attempted  before  in  "  Eugene  Aram,"  I  have 
enforced  more  directly  here ;  and  out  of  such  convictions 
I  have  created  hero  and  heroine,  placing  them  in  their 
primitive  and  natural  characters,  with  aid  more  from  life 
than  books,  —  from  courage  the  one,  from  affection  the 
other,  —  amidst  the  feeble  Hermaphrodites  of  our  sickly 
civilization,  examples  of  resolute  manhood  and  tender 
womanhood. 

The  opinions  I  have  here  put  forth  are  not  in  fashion 
at  this  day.  But  I  have  never  consulted  the  popular, 
any  more  than  the  sectarian  prejudice.  Alone  and 
unaided,  I  have  hewn  out  my  way,  from  first  to  last, 
by  the  force  of  my  own  convictions.  The  corn  springs 
up  in  the  field  centuries  after  the  first  sower  is  forgotten. 
Works  may  perish  with  the  workman;  but,  if  truthful, 
their  results  are  in  the  works  of  others,  imitating,  bor- 
rowing, enlarging,  and  improving,  in  the  everlasting 
cycle  of  industry  and  thought. 

Knebworth,  1845. 


NOTE  TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1851. 


I  HAVE  nothing  to  add  to  the  preceding  pages,  written 
six  years  ago,  as  to  the  objects  and  aims  of  this  work, 
except  to  say,  and  by  no  means  as  a  boast,  that  the  work 
lays  claims  to  one  kind  of  interest  which  I  certainly 
never  desired  to  effect  for  it,  —  namely ,  in  exemplifying 
the  glorious  uncertainty  of  the  law.  For,  humbly  aware 
of  the  blunders  which  novelists  not  belonging  to  the  legal 
profession  are  apt  to  commit,  when  they  summon  to  the 
denouement  of  a  plot  the  aid  of  a  deity  so  mysterious  as 
Themis,  I  submitted  to  an  eminent  lawyer  the  whole 
case  of  "  Beaufort  versus  Beaufort, "  as  it  stands  in  this 
novel.  And  the  pages  which  refer  to  that  suit  were  not 
only  written  from  the  opinion  annexed  to  the  brief  I 
sent  in,  but  submitted  to  the  eye  of  my  counsel,  and 
revised  by  his  pen. —  N.  B.  He  was  fee'd.  Judge 
then  my  dismay  when  I  heard  long  afterwards  that  the 
late  Mr.  O'Connell  disputed  the  soundness  of  the  law  I 
had  thus  bought  and  paid  for!  "Who  shall  decide 
when  doctors  disagree  1  '^  All  I  can  say  is,  that  I  took 
the  best  opinion  that  love  or  money  could  get  me :  and  I 
should  add  that  my  lawyer,  unawed  by  the  alleged  ipse 
dixit  of  the  great  Agitator  (to  be  sure,  he  is  dead),  still 


XX 11  NOTE. 

stoutly  maintains  his  own  views  of  the  question.^  Let 
me  hope  that  the  right  heir  will  live  long  enough  to  come 
under  the  statute  of  limitations.  Possession  is  nine 
points  of  the  law,  and  may  time  give  the  tenth. 

Knebworth. 

1  I  have,  however,  thought  it  prudent  so  far  to  meet  the  objec- 
tion suggested  by  Mr.  O'Connell,  as  to  make  a  slight  alteration  in 
this  edition,  which  will  probably  prevent  the  objection,  if  correct, 
being  of  any  material  practical  effect  on  the  disposition  of  that 
visionary  El  Dorado,  —  the  Beaufort  property. 


BOOK  I. 

^Jlotf)  in  meirteS  CebenI  2enje 
aUar  ic^  unb  ic^  wanbert'  au§, 

Unb  ber  Sugenb  froI)e  Xanje 
Ciefe  id^  in  be§  iUaterS  §au§. 

Schiller,  Der  Pilgrim. 


VOL.  I.  —  1 


NIGHT    AND   MORNING. 


BOOK  I.  —  INTRODUCTOEY  CHAPTER. 

Now  rests  our  vicar.     They  who  knew  him  best, 
Proclaim  his  life  to  have  been  entirely  rest ; 
Nor  one  so  old  has  left  this  world  of  sin. 
More  like  the  being  that  he  entered  in. 

Crabbe. 

In  one  of  the  Welsh  counties  is  a  small  village  called 

A .     It  is  somewhat   removed  from    the    highroad, 

and  is,  therefore,  but  little  known  to  those  luxurious 
amateurs  of  the  picturesque  who  view  nature  through 
the  windows  of  a  carriage-and-four.  Nor,  indeed,  is 
there  anything,  whether  of  scenery  or  association,  in  the 
place  itself,  sufficient  to  allure  the  more  sturdy  enthusiast 
from  the  beaten  tracks  which  tourists  and  guide-books 
prescribe  to  those  who  search  the  sublime  and  beautiful 
amidst  the  mountain  homes  of  the  ancient  Britons.  Still, 
on  the  whole,  the  village  is  not  without  its  attractions. 
It  is  placed  in  a  small  valley,  through  which  winds  and 
leaps,  down  many  a  rocky  fall,  a  clear,  babbling,  noisy 
rivulet,  that  affords  excellent  sport  to  the  brethren  of 
the  angle.  Thither,  accordingly,  in  the  summer  season 
occasionally  resort  the  Waltons  of  the  neighborhood,  — 
young  farmers,  retired  traders,  with  now  and  then  a 
stray  artist,  or  a  roving  student  from  one  of  the  universi- 


4  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

ties.  Hence  the  solitary  hostelry  of  A ,  being  some- 
what more  frequented,  is  also  more  clean  and  comfortable 
than  could  be  reasonably  anticipated  from  the  insignifi- 
cance and  remoteness  of  the  village. 

At  a  time  in  which  my  narrative  opens,  the  village 
boasted  a  sociable,  agreeable,  careless,  half-starved  parson, 
who  never  failed  to  introduce  himself  to  any  of  the  ang- 
lers who,  during  the  summer  months,  passed  a  day  or 
two  in  the  little  valley.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Caleb  Price  had 
been  educated  at  the  University  of  Cambridge,  where  he 
had  contrived,  in  three  years,  to  run  through  a  little  for- 
tune of  £3500.  It  is  true  that  he  acquired  in  return  the 
art  of  making  milk-punch,  the  science  of  pugilism,  and 
the  reputation  of  one  of  the  best-natured,  rattling,  open- 
hearted  companions  whom  you  could  desire  by  your  side 
in  a  tandem  to  Newmarket  or  in  a  row  with  the  barge- 
men. By  the  help  of  these  gifts  and  accomplishments 
he  had  not  failed  to  find  favor,  while  his  money  lasted, 
with  the  young  aristocracy  of  the  "  Gentle  Mother. " 
And,  though  the  very  reverse  of  an  ambitious  or  calculat- 
ing man,  he  had  certainly  nourished  the  belief  that  some 
one  of  the  hats  or  tinsel  gowns,  —  that  is,  young  lords,  or 
fellow-commoners,  —  with  whom  he  was  on  such  excel- 
lent terms,  and  who  supped  with  him  so  often,  would  do 
something  for  him  in  the  way  of  a  living.  But  it  so 
happened  that  when  Mr.  Caleb  Price  had,  with  a. little 
difficulty,  scrambled  through  his  degree,  and  found  him- 
self a  Bachelor  of  Arts  and  at  the  end  of  his  finances,  his 
grand  acquaintances  parted  from  him  to  their  various 
posts  in  the  state-militant  of  life.  And,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  one,  joyous  and  reckless  as  himself,  Mr.  Caleb 
Price  found  that  when  money  makes  itself  wings,  it  flies 
away  with  our  friends.  As  poor  Price  had  earned  no 
academical  distinction,    so  he  could  expect  no  advance- 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  5 

ment  from  his  college,  no  fellowship,  no  tutorship,  lead- 
ing hereafter  to  livings,  stalls,  and  deaneries.  Poverty- 
began  already  to  stare  him  in  the  face,  when  the  only 
friend  who,  having  shared  his  prosperity,  remained  true 
to  his  adverse  fate,  —  a  friend,  fortunately  for  him,  of 
high  connections  and  brilliant  prospects,  —  succeeded  in 

obtaining  for  him  the  humble  living  of  A .     To  this 

primitive  spot  the  once  jovial  roister  cheerfully  retired ; 
contrived  to  live  contented  upon  an  income  somewhat 
less  than  he  had  formerly  given  to  his  groom ;  preached 
very  short  sermons  to  a  very  scanty  and  ignorant  congre- 
gation, some  of  whom  only  understood  Welsh ;  did  good 
to  the  poor  and  sick  in  his  own  careless,  slovenly  way,  — 
and,  uncheered  or  imvexed  by  wife  and  children,  he  rose 
in  summer  with  the  lark,  and  in  winter  went  to  bed  at 
nine  precisely,  to  save  coals  and  candles.  For  the  rest, 
he  was  the  most  skilful  angler  in  the  whole  county ;  and 
so  willing  to  communicate  the  results  of  his  experience  as 
to  the  most  taking  color  of  the  flies,  and  the  most  favored 
haunts  of  the  trout,  that  he  had  given  especial  orders  at 
the  inn,  that  whenever  any  strange  gentleman  came  to 
fish,  Mr.  Caleb  Price  should  be  immediately  sent  for. 
In  this,  to  be  sure,  our  worthy  pastor  had  his  usual  re- 
compense. First,  if  the  stranger  were  tolerably  liberal, 
Mr.  Price  was  asked  to  dinner  at  the  inn ;  and,  secondly, 
if  this  failed,  from  the  poverty  or  the  churlishness  of  the 
obliged  party,  Mr.  Price  still  had  an  opportunity  to  hear 
the  last  news ,  to  talk  about  the  great  world,  —  in  a  word, 
to  exchange  ideas,  and  perhaps  to  get  an  old  newspaper 
or  an  odd  number  of  a  magazine. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  one  afternoon  in  October, 
•when  the  periodical  excursions  of  the  anglers,  becoming 
gradually  rarer  and  more  rare,  had  altogether  ceased,  Mr. 
Caleb  Price  was  summoned  from  his  parlor,  in  which  he 


6  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

had  been  employed  in  the  fabrication  of  a  net  for  his 
cabbages,  by  a  little  white-headed  boy,  who  came  to  say 
there  was  a  gentleman  at  the  inn  who  wished  immedi- 
ately to  see  him,  —  a  strange  gentleman  who  had  never 
been  there  before. 

Mr.  Price  threw  down  his  net,  seized  his  hat,  and  in 
less  than  five  minutes  he  was  in  the  best  room  of  the 
little  inn. 

The  person  there  awaiting  him  was  a  man  who,  though 
plainly  clad  in  a  velveteen  shooting-jacket,  had  an  air 
and  mien  greatly  above  those  common  to  the  pedestrian 
visitors  of  A .  He  was  tall,  and  one  of  those  ath- 
letic forms  in  which  vigor  in  youth  is  too  often  followed 
by  corpulence  in  age.  At  this  period,  however,  in  the 
full  prime  of  manhood,  the  ample  chest  and  sinewy 
limbs  —  seen  to  full  advantage  in  their  simple  and  manly 
dress  —  could  not  fail  to  excite  that  popular  admiration 
which  is  always  given  to  strength  in  the  one  sex  as  to 
delicacy  in  the  other.  The  stranger  was  walking  impa- 
tiently to  and  fro  the  small  apartment  when  Mr.  Price 
entered ;  and  then,  turning  to  the  clergyman  a  countenance 
handsome  and  striking,  but  yet  more  prepossessing  from 
its  expression  of  frankness  than  from  the  regularity  of  its 
features,  he  stopped  short,  held  out  his  hand,  and  said, 
with  a  gay  laugh,  as  he  glanced  over  the  parson's  thread- 
bare and  slovenly  costume,  "  My  poor  Caleb  !  —  what  a 
metamorphosis  !     I  should  not  have  known  you  again !  " 

"  What !  you  !  Is  it  possible,  my  dear  fellow  1  —  how 
glad  I  am  to  see  you!  What  on  earth  can  bring  you  to 
such  a  place!  Xo!  not  a  soul  would  believe  me  if  I  said 
I  had  seen  you  in  this  miserable  hole." 

"  That  is  precisely  the  reason  why  I  am  here.  Sit 
down,  Caleb,  and  we  '11  talk  over  matters  as  soon  as  our 
landlord  has  brought  up  the  materials  for  —  " 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  7 

"The  milk-punch,"  internipted  Mr.  Price,  rubbing 
his  hands.  "Ah,  that  will  bring  us  back  to  old  times, 
indeed! " 

In  a  few  minutes  the  punch  was  prepared,  and  after 
two  or  three  preparatory  glasses,  the  stranger  thus 
commenced :  — 

"  My  dear  Caleb,  I  am  in  want  of  your  assistance,  and, 
above  all,  of  your  secrecy." 

"  I  promise  you  both  beforehand.  It  will  make  me 
happy  the  rest  of  my  life  to  think  I  have  served  my 
patron,  my  benefactor, —  the  only  friend  I  possess." 

"Tush,  man!  don't  talk  of  that:  we  shall  do  better 
for  you  one  of  these  days.  But  now  to  the  point:  I 
have  come  here  to  be  married,  —  married,  old  boy! 
married!  " 

And  the  stranger  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  and 
chuckled  with  the  glee  of  a  schoolboy. 

"  Humph!  "  said  the  parson,  gravely.  "  It  is  a  serious 
thing  to  do,  and  a  very  odd  place  to  come  to." 

"  I  admit  both  propositions :  this  punch  is  superb. 
To  proceed.  You  know  that  my  uncle's  immense  for- 
tune is  at  his  own  disposal ;  if  I  disobliged  him,  he 
would  be  capable  of  leaving  all  to  my  brother;  I  should 
disoblige  him  irrevocably  if  he  knew  that  I  had  married 
a  tradesman's  daughter;  I  am  going  to  marry  a  trades- 
man's daughter,  —  a  girl  in  a  million!  —  the  ceremony 
must  be  as  secret  as  possible.  And  in  this  church,  with 
you  for  the  priest,  I  do  not  see  a  chance  of  discovery." 

"  Do  you  marry  by  license  1  " 

"No,  my  intended  is  not  of  age;  and  we  keep  the 
secret  even  from  her  father.  In  this  village  you  will 
mumble  over  the  banns  without  one  of  your  congregation 
ever  taking  heed  of  the  name.  I  shall  stay  here  a  month 
for  the  purpose.     She  is  in  London,  on  a  visit  to  a  rela- 


8  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

tion  in  the  city.  The  banns  on  her  side  will  be  pub- 
lished with  equal  privacy  in  a  little  church  near  the 
Tower,  where  my  name  will  be  no  less  unknown  than 
here.      Oh,  I  've  contrived  it  famously!  " 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  consider  what  you  risk." 

"  I  have  considered  all,  and  I  find  every  chance  in 
my  favor.  The  bride  will  arrive  here  on  the  day  of  our 
wedding:  my  servant  will  be  one  witness;  some  stupid 
old  Welshman,  as  antediluvian  as  possible,  — I  leave  it 
to  you  to  select  him, —  shall  be  the  other.  My  servant 
I  shall  dispose  of,  and  the  rest  I  can  depend  on." 

"  But  —  " 

"  I  detest  buts;  if  I  had  to  make  a  language,  I  would 
not  admit  such  a  word  in  it.  And  now,  before  I  run  on 
about  Catherine,  a  subject  quite  inexhaustible,  tell  me, 
my  dear  friend,  something  about  yourself. " 

Somewhat  more  than  a  month  had  elapsed  since  the 
arrival  of  the  stranger  at  the  village  inn.  He  had 
changed  his  quarters  for  the  parsonage,  —  went  out  but 
little,  and  then  chiefly  on  foot  excursions  among  the 
sequestered  hills  in  the  neighborhood:  he  was  there- 
fore but  partially  known  by  sight,  even  in  the  village; 
and  the  visit  of  some  old  college  friend  to  the  minister, 
though  indeed  it  had  never  chanced  before,  was  not  in 
itself  so  remarkable  an  event  as  to  excite  any  particular 
observation.  The  banns  had  been  duly,  and  half  audibly, 
hurried  over,  after  the  service  was  concluded,  and,  while 
the  scanty  congregation  were  dispersing  down  the  little 
aisle  of  the  church,  when  one  morning  a  chaise  and  pair 
arrived  at  the  parsonage.  A  servant  out  of  livery  leaped 
from  the  box.  The  stranger  opened  the  door  of  the 
chaise,  and,  uttering  a  joyous  exclamation,  gave  his  arm 
to  a  lady,  who,  trembling  and  agitated,  could  scarcely, 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  9 

even  with  that  stalwart  support,  descend  the  steps. 
"Ah!"  she  said,  in  a  voice  choked  with  tears,  when 
they  found  themselves  alone  in  the  little  parlor,  — 
"ah!  if  you  knew  how  I  have  suffered!" 

How  is  it  that  certain  words,  and  those  the  homeliest, 
—  which  the  hand  writes  and  the  eye  reads  as  trite  and 
commonplace  expressions,  —  when  spoken,  convey  so 
much,  so  many  meanings  complicated  and  refined? 
"Ah!  if  you  knew  how  I  have  suffered!" 

When  the  lover  heard  these  words,  his  gay  counte- 
nance fell;  he  drew  back,  —  his  conscience  smote  him: 
in  that  complaint  was  the  whole  history  of  a  clandestine 
love,  not  for  both  the  parties,  hut  for  the  woman;  the 
painful  secrecy,  the  remorseful  deceit,  the  shame,  the 
fear,  the  sacrifice.  She  who  uttered  those  words  was 
scarcely  sixteen.  It  is  an  early  age  to  leave  childhood 
behind  forever! 

"My  own  love!  you  have  suffered,  indeed;  but  it  is 


over  now." 


"  Over!  And  what  will  they  say  of  me,  what  will 
they  think  of  me,  at  horite  ?     Over!     Ah!  " 

"  It  is  but  for  a  short  time !  in  the  course  of  nature 
my  uncle  cannot  live  long:  all  then  will  be  explained. 
Our  marriage  once  made  public,  all  connected  with  you 
will  be  proud  to  own  you.  You  will  have  wealth,  sta- 
tion, —  a  name  among  the  first  in  the  gentry  of  England. 
But,  above  all,  you  will  have  the  happiness  to  think 
that  your  forbearance  for  a  time  has  saved  me  —  and,  it 
may  be,  our  children,  sweet  one !  —  from  poverty  and  —  " 

"  It  is  enougli,"  interrupted  the  girl;  and  the  expres- 
sion of  her  countenance  became  serene  and  elevated. 
"It  is  for  you,  —  for  your  sake.  I  know  what  you 
hazard:  how  much  I  must  owe  you!  Forgive  me;  this 
is  the  last  murmur  you  shall  ever  bear  from  these  lips." 


10  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

An  hour  after  tliese  words  were  spoken,  the  marriage 
ceremony  was  concluded. 

"  Caleb,"  said  the  bridegroom,  drawing  the  clergyman 
aside  as  they  were  about  to  re-enter  the  house,  "  you  will 
keep  your  promise,  I  know;  and  you  think  I  may  de- 
pend implicitly  upon  the  good  faith  of  the  witness  you 
have  selected  1  " 

"  Upon  his  good  faith?  —  no,"  said  Caleb,  smiling; 
"  but  upon  his  deafness,  his  ignorance,  and  his  age. 
My  poor  old  clerk!  he  will  have  forgotten  all  about  it 
before  this  day  three  months.  Xow  I  have  seen  your 
lady,  I  no  longer  wonder  that  you  incur  so  great  a  risk. 
I  never  beheld  so  lovely  a  countenance.  You  will  be 
happy."  And  the  village  priest  sighed,  and  thought  of 
the  coming  winter  and  his  own  lonely  hearth. 

"  My  dear  friend,  you  have  only  seen  her  beauty,  —  it 
is  her  least  charm.  Heaven  knows  how  often  I  have 
made  love;  and  this  is  the  only  woman  I  have  ever 
really  loved.  Caleb,  there  is  an  excellent  living  that 
adjoins  my  uncle's  house.  The  rector  is  old;  when  the 
house  is  mine,  you  will  not  be  long  without  the  living. 
We  shall  be  neighbors,  Caleb,  and  then  you  shall  try 
and  find  a  bride  for  yourself.  Smith,"  —  and  the  bride- 
groom turned  to  the  servant  who  had  accompanied  his 
wife,  and  served  as  a  second  witness  to  the  marriage,  — 
"  tell  the  postboy  to  put-to  the  horses  immediately. " 

"  Yes,  sir.     May  I  speak  a  word  with  you  ?  " 

"Well,  what?" 

"  Your  uncle,  sir,  sent  for  me  to  come  to  him,  the  day 
before  we  left  town." 

"Aha!  — indeed!" 

"  And  I  could  just  pick  up  among  his  servants  that  he 
had  some  suspicion;  at  least,  that  he  had  been  making 
inquiries, —  and  seemed  very  cross,  sir." 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  11 

"  You  went  to  him  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  was  afraid.  He  has  such  a  way  with 
him:  whenever  his  eye  is  fixed  on  mine,  I  always  feel 
as  if  it  was  impossible  to  tell  a  lie;  and  —  and — in. 
short,  I  thought  it  was  best  not  to  go." 

"You  did  right.  Confound  this  fellow!"  muttered 
the  bridegroom,  turning  away;  "  he  is  honest,  and  loves 
me:  yet,  if  my  uncle  sees  him,  he  is  clumsy  enough  to 
betray  all.  Well,  I  always  meant  to  get  him  out  of 
the  way,  — the  sooner  the  better.     Smith!  " 

"Yes,  sir!" 

"  You  have  often  said  that  you  should  like,  if  you  had 
some  capital,  to  settle  in  Australia.  Your  father  is  an 
excellent  farmer;  you  are  above  the  situation  you  hold 
with  me;  you  are  well  educated,  and  have  some  knowl- 
edge of  agriculture;  you  can  scarcely  fail  to  make  a 
fortune  as  a  settler;  and,  if  you  are  of  the  same  mind 
still,  why,  look  you,  I  have  just  £1000  at  my  banker's: 
you  shall  have  half,  if  you  like  to  sail  by  the  first 
packet. " 

"  Oh,  sir,  you  are  too  generous." 

"Nonsense;  no  thanks,  —  I  am  more  prudent  than 
generous;  for  I  agree  with  you  that  it  is  all  up  with 
me  if  my  uncle  gets  hold  of  you.  I  dread  my  prying 
brother,  too;  in  fact,  the  obligation  is  on  my  side: 
only  stay  abroad  till  I  am  a  rich  man,  and  my  marriage 
made  public,  and  then  you  may  ask  of  me  what  you 
will.  It's  agreed,  then;  order  the  horses,  we'll  go 
round  by  Liverpool,  and  learn  about  the  vessels.  By 
the  way,  my  good  fellow,  I  hope  you  see  nothing  now 
of  that  good-for-nothing  brother  of  yours  ?  " 

"No,  indeed,  sir.  It's  a  thousand  pities  he  has 
turned  out  so  ill ;  for  he  was  the  cleverest  of  the  family, 
and  could  always  twist  me  round  his  little  finger." 


12  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  That  's  the  very  reason  I  mentioned  him.  If  he 
learned  our  secret,  he  would  take  it  to  an  excellent 
market.      Wliere  is  he  1  " 

"  Hiding,  I  suspect,  sir." 

"Well,  we  shall  put  the  sea  between  you  and  him! 
So  now  all 's  safe." 

Caleb  stood  by  the  porch  of  his  house  as  the  bride  and 
bridegroom  entered  their  humble  vehicle.  Though  then 
Xovember,  the  day  was  exquisitely  mild  and  calm,  the 
sky  without  a  cloud,  and  even  the  leafless  trees  seemed 
to  smile  beneath  the  cheerful  sun.  And  the  young 
bride  wept  no  more;  she  was  with  him  she  loved, —  she 
was  his  forever.  She  forgot  the  rest.  The  hope,  the 
heart,  of  sixteen  spoke  brightly  out  through  the  blushes 
that  mantled  over  her  fair  cheeks.  The  bridegroom's 
frank  and  manly  countenance  was  radiant  Avitli  joy.  As 
he  waved  his  hand  to  Caleb  from  the  window,  the  postboy 
cracked  his  whip,  the  servant  settled  himself  on  the 
dickey,  the  horses  started  off  in  a  brisk  trot,  —  the  clergy- 
man was  left  alone! 

To  be  married  is  certainly  an  event  in  life;  to  marry 
other  people  is,  for  a  priest,  a  very  ordinary  occurrence; 
and  yet,  from  that  day,  a  great  change  began  to  operate 
in  the  spirits  and  the  habits  of  Caleb  Price.  Have  you 
ever,  my  gentle  reader,  buried  yourself  for  some  time 
quietly  in  the  lazy  ease  of  a  dull  country  life;  have  you 
ever  become  gradually  accustomed  to  its  monotony,  and 
inured  to  its  solitude;  and,  just  at  the  time  when  you 
have  half  forgotten  the  great  world,  — ■  that  mare  mag- 
mtm  that  frets  and  roars  in  the  distance, —  have  you  ever 
received,  in  your  calm  retreat,  some  visitor  full  of  the 
busy  and  excited  life  which  you  imagined  yourself  con- 
tented to  relinquish?  If  so,  have  you  not  perceived, 
that  in  proportion  as  his  presence  and  communication 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  13 

either  revived  old  memories  or  brought  before  you  new 
pictures  of  "  the  briglit  tumult "  of  that  existence  of 
which  your  guest  made  a  part,  you  began  to  compare 
him  curiously  with  yourself;  you  began  to  feel  that 
what  before  was  to  rest  is  now  to  rot;  that  your  years 
are  gliding  from  you  unenjoyed  and  wasted;  that  the 
contrast  between  the  animal  life  of  passionate  civiliza- 
tion and  the  vegetable  torpor  of  motionless  seclusion  is 
one  that,  if  you  are  still  young,  it  tasks  your  philosophy 
to  bear,  —  feeling  all  the  while  that  the  torpor  may  be 
yours  to  your  grave?  And,  when  your  guest  has  left 
you,  when  you  are  again  alone,  is  the  solitude  the  same 
as  it  was  before  1 

Our  poor  Caleb  had  for  years  rooted  his  thoughts  to 
his  village.  His  guest  had  been,  like  the  bird  in  the 
fairy  tale,  settling  upon  the  quiet  branches,  and  singing 
so  loudly  and  so  gladly  of  the  enchanted  skies  afar,  that, 
when  it  flew  away,  the  tree  pined,  nipped  and  withering 
in  the  sober  sun  in  Avhich  before  it  had  basked  con- 
tented. The  guest  was,  indeed,  one  of  those  men  whose 
animal  spirits  exercise  upon  such  as  come  within  their 
circle  the  influence  and  power  usually  ascribed  only  to 
intellectual  qualities.  During  the  month  he  had  so- 
journed with  Caleb,  he  had  brought  back  to  the  poor 
parson  all  the  gayety  of  the  brisk  and  noisy  novitiate 
that  preceded  the  solemn  vow  and  the  dull  retreat,  — 
the  social  parties,  the  merry  suppers,  the  open-handed, 
open-hearted  fellowship  of  riotous,  delightful,  extrava- 
gant, thoughtless  youth.  And  Caleb  was  not  a  book- 
man,—  not  a  scholar;  he  had  no  resources  in  himself,  no 
occupation  but  his  indolent  and  ill-paid  duties.  The 
emotions,  therefore,  of  the  active  man  were  easily  aroused 
within  him.  But  if  this  comparison  between  his  past 
and  present   life  rendered  him   restless  and  disturbed, 


14  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

how  much  more  deeply  and  lastingly  was  he  affected  by 
a  contrast  between  his  own  future  and  that  of  his  friend !  — 
not  in  those  points  where  he  could  never  hope  equality, 
wealth  and  station,  the  conventional  distinctions  to 
which,  after  all,  a  man  of  ordinary  sense  must  sooner 
or  later  reconcile  himself;  but  in  that  one  respect 
wherein  all,  high  and  low,  pretend  to  the  same  rights: 
rights  which  a  man  of  moderate  warmth  of  feeling  can 
never  willingly  renounce,  — namely,  a  partner  in  a  lot, 
however  obscure;  a  kind  face  by  a  hearth,  no  matter 
how  mean  it  be!  And  his  happier  friend,  like  all  men 
full  of  life,  was  full  of  himself,  —  full  of  his  love,  of 
his  future,  of  the  blessings  of  home  and  wife  and  children. 
Then,  too,  the  young  bride  seemed  so  fair,  so  confiding, 
and  so  tender,  so  formed  to  grace  the  noblest  or  to  cheer 
the  humblest  home!  And  both  were  so  happy,  so  all  in 
all  each  to  each  other,  as  they  left  that  barren  threshold! 
And  the  priest  felt  all  this,  as,  melancholy  and  envious, 
he  turned  from  the  door  on  that  November  day,  to  find 
himself  thoroughly  alone.  He  now  began  seriously  to 
muse  upon  those  fancied  blessings  which  men  wearied 
with  celibacy  see  springing  heavenward  behind  the  altar. 
A  few  weeks  afterwards  a  notable  change  was  visible  in 
the  good  man's  exterior.  He  became  more  careful  of 
his  dress,  he  shaved  every  morning,  he  purchased  a 
crop-eared  Welsh  cob;  and  it  was  soon  known  in  the 
neighborhood  that  the  only  journey  the  cob  was  ever 
condemned  to  take  was  to  the  house  of  a  certain  squire, 
who,  amidst  a  family  of  all  ages,  boasted  two  very  pretty 
marriageable  daughters.  That  was  the  second  holiday- 
time  of  poor  Caleb, — the  love-romance  of  his  life:  it 
soon  closed.  On  learning  the  amount  of  the  pastor's 
stipend  the  squire  refused  to  receive  his  addresses;  and, 
shortly  after,  the  girl  to  whom  he  had  attached  himself 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  15 

made  what  the  world  calls  a  happy  match :  and  perhaps 
it  was  one,  for  I  never  heard  that  she  regretted  the 
forsaken  lover.  Probably  Caleb  was  not  one  of  those 
whose  place  in  a  woman's  heart  is  never  to  be  supplied. 
The  lady  married,  the  world  went  round  as  before,  the 
brook  danced  as  merrily  through  the  village,  the  poor 
worked  on  the  week-days,  and  the  urchins  gambolled 
round  the  gravestones  on  the  Sabbath, — and  the  pas- 
tor's heart  was  broken.  He  languished  gradually  and 
silently  away.  The  villagers  observed  that  he  had  lost 
his  old  good-humored  smile ;  that  he  did  not  stop  every 
Saturday  evening  at  the  carrier's  gate  to  ask  if  there 
were  any  news  stirring  in  the  town  which  the  carrier 
weekly  visited;  that  he  did  not  come  to  borrow  the 
stray  newspapers  that  now  and  then  found  their  way 
into  the  village;  that,  as  he  sauntered  along  the  brook- 
side,  his  clothes  hung  loose  on  his  limbs,  and  that  he 
no  longer  "  whistled  as  he  went ;  "  alas,  he  was  no  longer 
"  in  want  of  thought " !  By  degrees  the  walks  them- 
selves were  suspended ;  the  parson  was  no  longer  visi- 
ble :  a  stranger  performed  his  duties. 

One  day ,  —  it  might  be  some  three  years  and  more 
after  the  fatal  visit  I  have  commemorated, — one  very 
wild,  rough  day  in  early  March,  the  postman  who  made 
the  round  of  the  district  rang  at  the  parson's  bell.  The 
single  female  servant,  her  red  hair  loose  on  her  neck, 
replied  to  tlie  call. 

"  And  how  is  the  master  1 " 

"  Very  bad ;  "  and  the  girl  wiped  her  eyes. 

"  He  should  leave  you  something  handsome,"  re- 
marked the  postman,  kindly,  as  he  pocketed  the  money 
for  the  letter. 

The  pastor  was  in  bed,  —  the  boisterous  wind  rattled 
down  the  chimney  and  shook  the  ill-fitting  casement  in 


16  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

its  rotting  frame.  The  clothes  he  had  last  worn  were 
thrown  carelessly  about,  unsmoothed,  unbrushed;  the 
scanty  articles  of  furniture  were  out  of  their  proper 
places:  slovenly  discomfort  marked  the  death-chamber. 
And  by  the  bedside  stood  a  neighboring  clergyman,  a 
stout,  rustic,  homely,  thoroughly  Welsh  priest,  who 
might  have  sat  for  the  portrait  of  Parson  Adams. 

"  Here  's  a  letter  for  you,"  said  the  visitor. 

"For  me!"  echoed  Caleb,  feebly.  "Ah, — well:  is 
it  not  very  dark,  or  are  my  eyes  failing?"  The  cler- 
gyman and  the  servant  drew  aside  the  curtains,  and 
propped  the  sick  man  up;  he  read  as  follows,  slowly, 
and  with  difficulty:  — 

Dear  Caleb, — At  last  I  can  do  something  for  you.  A 
friend  of  mine  has  a  living  in  his  gift  just  vacant,  worth,  I 
understand,  from  three  to  four  hundred  a  year :  pleasant 
neighborhood,  —  small  parish ;  and  my  friend  keeps  the  hounds ! 
—  just  the  thing  for  you.  He  is,  however,  a  very  particular 
sort  of  person,  —  wants  a  companion,  and  has  a  horror  of  any- 
thing evangelical  ;  wishes,  therefore,  to  see  you  before  he  de- 
cides. If  you  can  meet  me  in  London,  some  day  next  month, 
I  '11  present  you  to  him,  and  I  have  no  doubt  it  will  be  settled. 
You  nuist  think  it  strange  I  never  wrote  to  you  since  we 
parted,  but  you  know  I  never  was  a  very  good  correspondent ; 
and  as  I  had  nothing  to  communicate  advantageous  to  you,  I 
thought  it  a  sort  of  insult  to  enlarge  on  my  own  happiness, 
and  so  forth.  All  I  shall  say  on  that  score  is,  that  I  've  sown 
my  wild  oats;  and  that  you  may  take  my  word  for  it,  there  's 
nothing  that  can  make  a  man  know  how  large  the  heart  is, 
and  how  little  the  world,  till  he  comes  home  (perhaps  after  a 
hard  day's  hunting)  and  sees  his  own  fireside,  and  hears  one 
duar  welcome  ;  and  —  oh,  by  the  way,  Caleb,  if  you  could  but 
Bee  my  boy,  the  sturdiest  little  rogue!  But  enough  of  this. 
All  that  vexes  me  is,  that  I  've  never  yet  been  able  to  declare 
my  marriage  :  my  uncle,  however,  suspects  nothing;  rny  wife 
bears  up  against  all,  like  an  angel  as  she  is;  still,  in  case  of  any 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  17 

accident,  it  occurs  to  me,  now  I  'm  writing  to  you,  especially 
if  you  leave  the  place,  that  it  may  be  as  well  to  send  me  au 
examined  copy  of  the  register.  In  those  remote  places  registers 
are  often  lost  or  mislaid  ;  and  it  may  be  useful  hereafter,  when 
I  proclaim  the  marritige,  to  clear  up  all  doubt  as  to  the  fact. 
—  Good-by,  old  fellow, 

Yours  most  truly,  etc.,  etc. 

"It  comes  too  late,"  sighed  Caleb,  heavily;  and  the 
letter  fell  from  his  hands.  There  was  a  long  pause. 
"Close  the  shutters,"  said  the  sick  man,  at  last;  "I 
think  I  could  sleep:  and  —  and  —  pick  up  that  letter." 

With  a  trembling  but  eager  gripe  he  seized  the  paper, 
as  a  miser  would  seize  the  deeds  of  an  estate  on  which 
he  has  a  mortgage.  He  smoothed  the  folds,  looked  com- 
placently at  the  well-known  hand,  smiled,  —  a  ghastly 
smile! — and  then  placed  the  letter  under  his  pillow, 
and  sank  down :  they  left  him  alone.  He  did  not  wake 
for  some  hours,  and  that  good  clergyman,  poor  as  him- 
self, was  again  at  his  post.  The  only  friendships  that 
are  really  with  us  in  the  hour  of  need,  are  those  which 
are  cemented  by  equality  of  circumstance.  In  the  depth 
of  home,  in  the  hour  of  tribulation,  by  the  bed  of  death, 
the  rich  and  the  poor  are  seldom  found  side  by  side. 
Caleb  was  evidently  much  feebler;  but  his  sense  seemed 
clearer  than  it  had  been,  and  tlie  instincts  of  his  native 
kindness  were  the  last  that  left  him.  "  There  is  some- 
thing he  wants  me  to  do  for  him,"  he  muttered.  "  Ah! 
I  remember:  Jones,  will  you  send  for  the  parish  regis- 
ter] It  is  somewhere  in  the  vestry -room,  I  think, — 
but  nothing  's  kept  properly.  Better  go  yourself,  —  't  is 
important. " 

Mr.  Jones  nodded,  and  sallied  forth.  The  register 
was  not  in  the  vestry ;  the  churchwardens  knew  nothing 
about  it;  the  clerk  —  a  new  clerk  —  who  was  also  the 

VOL.  I.  —  2 


18  NIGHT   AND   MORNL\G. 

sexton,  and  rather  a  wild  fellow  —  had  gone  ten  miles  off 
to  a  wedding:  every  place  was  searched  ;  till,  at  last,  the 
book  was  found,  amidst  a  heap  of  old  magazines  and 
dusty  papers,  in  the  parlor  of  Caleb  himself.  By  the 
time  it  was  brought  to  him,  the  sufferer  was  fast  de- 
clining; with  some  difficulty  his  dim  eye  discovered 
the  place  where,  amidst  the  clumsy  pot-hooks  of  tlie 
parishioners,  the  large,  clear  hand  of  his  old  friend, 
and  the  trembling  characters  of  the  bride,  looked  forth, 
distinguished. 

"  Extract  this  for  me,  will  you?  "  said  Caleb. 

Mr.  Jones  obeyed. 

"  Now  just  write  above  the  extract,"  — 

Sir,  —  By  Mr.  Price's  desire  I  send  you  the  enclosed.  He 
is  too  ill  to  write  himself.  But  be  bids  me  say,  that  he  has 
never  been  quite  the  same  man  siuce  you  left  him ;  and  that, 
if  he  should  not  get  well  again,  still  your  kind  letter  has 
made  him  easier  in  his  mind. 

Caleb  stopped. 

"Goon." 

"That  is  all  I  have  to  say:  sign  your  name,  and  put 
the  address,  — here  it  is.  Ah,  the  letter,"  he  muttered, 
"  must  not  lie  about!  If  anything  happen  to  me,  it  may 
get  him  into  trouble. " 

And  as  Mr.  Jones  sealed  his  communication,  Caleb 
feebly  stretched  his  wan  hand,  and  held  the  letter 
which  had  "  come  too  late  "  over  the  flame  of  the  can- 
dle. As  the  blazing  paper  dropped  on  the  carpetless 
floor,  Mr.  Jones  prudently  set  thereon  the  broad  sole 
of  his  top-boot,  and  the  maid-servant  brushed  the  tinder 
into  the  grate. 

"Ah,  trample  it  out:  hurry  it  amongst  the  ashes. 
The  last  as  the  rest,"  said  Caleb,  hoarsely.     "  Friend- 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  19 

ship,  fortune,  hope,  love,  life,  —  a  little  flame,  and 
then  —  and  then  —  " 

"  Don't  be  uneasy,—  it 's  quite  out!  "  said  Mr.  Jones. 

Caleb  turned  his  face  to  the  wall.  He  lingered  till 
the  next  day,  when  he  passed  insensibly  from  sleep  to 
death.  As  soon  as  the  breath  was  out  of  his  body, 
Mr.  Jones  felt  that  his  duty  was  discharged,  that  other 
duties  called  him  home.  He  promised  to  return  to  read 
the  burial-service  over  the  deceased,  gave  some  hasty 
orders  about  the  plain  funeral,  and  was  turning  from 
the  room,  when  he  saw  the  letter  he  had  written  by 
Caleb's  wish,  still  on  the  table.  "  I  pass  the  post-office, 
—  I  '11  put  it  in,"  said  he  to  the  weeping  servant;  "  and 
just  give  me  that  scrap  of  paper."  So  he  wrote  on 
the  scrap,  "  P.  S.  He  died  this  morning,  at  half-past 
twelve,  without  pain. — M.  J.;"  and,  not  taking  the 
trouble  to  break  the  seal,  thrust  the  final  bulletin  into 
the  folds  of  the  letter,  which  he  then  carefully  placed  in 
his  vast  pocket,  and  safely  transferred  to  the  post.  And 
that  was  all  that  the  jovial  and  happy  man,  to  whom  the 
letter  was  addressed,  ever  heard  of  the  last  days  of  his 
college  friend. 

The  living  vacant  by  the  death  of  Caleb  Price  was  not 
so  valuable  as  to  plague  the  patron  with  many  applica- 
tions. It  continued  vacant  nearly  the  whole  of  the  six 
months  prescribed  by  law.  And  the  desolate  parsonage 
was  committed  to  the  charge  of  one  of  the  villagers, 
who  had  occasionally  assisted  Caleb  in  the  care  of  his 
little  garden.  The  villager,  his  wife,  and  half-a-dozen 
noisy,  ragged  children,  took  possession  of  the  quiet 
bachelor's  abode.  The  furniture  had  been  sold  to  pay 
the  expenses  of  the  funeral,  and  a  few  trifling  bills; 
and,  save  the  kitchen  and  the  two  attics,  the  empty 
house,   uninhabited,   was   surrendered   to   the    sportive 


20  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

mischief  of  the  idle  urchins,  who  prowled  about  the 
silent  chambers  in  fear  of  the  silence,  and  in  ecstasy  at 
the  space.  The  bedroom  in  which  Caleb  had  died  was, 
indeed,  long  held  sacred  by  infantine  superstition.  But 
one  day,  the  eldest  boy  having  ventured  across  the  thres- 
hold, two  cupboards,  the  doors  standing  ajar,  attracted 
the  child's  curiosity.  He  opened  one,  and  his  exclama- 
tion soon  brought  the  rest  of  the  children  round  him. 
Have  you  ever,  reader,  when  a  boy,  suddenly  stumbled 
on  that  El  Dorado,  called  by  the  grown-up  folks  a  lum- 
ber-room? Lumber,  indeed!  what  Virtu  double-locks 
in  cabinets  is  the  real  lumber  to  the  boy!  Lumber, 
reader!  to  thee  it  was  a  treasury!  Now  this  cupboard 
had  been  the  lumber-room  in  Caleb's  household.  In  an 
instant  the  whole  troop  had  thrown  themselves  on  the 
motley  contents.  Stray  joints  of  clumsy  fishing-rods; 
artificial  baits;  a  pair  of  worn-out  top-boots,  in  which 
one  of  the  urchins,  whooping  and  shouting,  buried  him- 
self up  to  the  middle;  moth-eaten,  stained,  and  ragged, 
the  collegian's  gown,  —  relic  of  the  dead  man's  palmy 
time ;  a  bag  of  carpenter's  tools,  chiefly  broken ;  a  cricket- 
bat;  an  odd  boxing-glove;  a  fencing-foil,  snapped  in  the 
middle;  and,  more  than  all,  some  half-finished  attempts 
at  rude  toys:  a  boat,  a  cart,  a  doll's  house,  in  which  the 
good-natured  Caleb  had  busied  himself  for  the  younger 
ones  of  that  family  in  which  he  had  found  the  fatal  ideal 
of  his  trite  life.  One  by  one  were  these  lugged  forth 
from  their  dusty  slumber,  —  profane  hands  struggling 
for  the  first  right  of  appropriation.  And  now,  revealed 
against  the  wall,  glared  upon  the  startled  violators  of 
the  sanctuary,  with  glassy  eyes  and  horrent  visage,  a 
grim  monster.  They  huddled  back  one  upon  the  other, 
pale  and  breathless,  till  the  eldest,  seeing  that  the  crea- 
ture moved  not,  took  heart,  approached  on  tip-toe,  — 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  21 

twice  receded,  and  twice  again  advanced,  and  finally 
drew  out  daubed,  painted,  and  tricked  forth  in  the  sem- 
blance of  a  grilhn,  a  gigantic  kite  ! 

The  children,  alas  !  were  not  old  and  wise  enough  to 
know  all  the  dormant  value  of  that  imprisoned  aeronaut, 
which  had  cost  Caleb  many  a  dull  evening's  labor,  —  the 
intended  gift  to  the  false  one's  favorite  brother.  But 
they  guessed  that  it  was  a  thing  or  spirit  appertaining 
of  right  to  them;  and  they  resolved,  after  mature  con- 
sultation, to  impart  the  secret  of  their  discovery  to  an 
old  wooden-legged  villager,  who  had  served  in  the  army, 
who  was  the  idol  of  all  the  children  of  the  place;  and 
■who,  they  firmly  believed,  knew  everything  under  the 
sun,  except  the  mystical  arts  of  reading  and  writing. 
Accordingly,  having  seen  that  the  coast  was  clear,  — for 
they  considered  their  parents  (as  the  children  of  the 
hard-working  often  do)  the  natural  foes  to  amusement,  — 
they  carried  the  monster  into  an  old  out-house,  and  ran 
to  the  veteran  to  beg  him  to  come  up  slily  and  inspect 
its  properties. 

Three  months  after  this  memorable  event,  arrived 
the  new  pastor,  —  a  slim,  prim,  orderly,  and  starch  young 
man,  framed  by  nature  and  trained  by  practice  to  bear 
a  great  deal  of  solitude  and  starving.  Two  loving 
couples  had  waited  to  be  married  till  his  reverence 
should  arrive.  The  ceremony  performed,  where  was 
the  registry-book?  The  vestry  was  searched,  — the 
churchwardens  interrogated;  the  gay  clerk  who,  on  the 
demise  of  his  deaf  predecessor,  had  come  into  office  a 
little  before  Caleb's  last  illness,  had  a  dim  recollection 
of  having  taken  the  registry  up  to  Mr.  Price  at  the 
time  the  vestry-room  was  Avhitewashed.  The  house 
was  searched,  —  the  cupboard,  the  mysterious  cupboard, 
was  explored.     "  Here  it  is,  sir !  "  cried  the  clerk ;  and 


22  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

he  pounced  upon  a  pale  parchment  volume.  The  thin 
clergyman  opened  it,  and  recoiled  in  dismay,  —  more  than 
three-fourths  of  the  leaves  had  been  torn  out. 

"  It  is  the  moths,  sir, "  said  the  gardener's  wife,  who 
had  not  yet  removed  from  the  house. 

The  clergyman  looked  round ;  one  of  the  children  was 
trembling.  "  What  have  you  done  to  this  book,  little 
one  1  " 

"  That  book  ?  _  the  —  hi !  —  hi !  —  " 

"  Speak  the  truth,  and  you  sha'n't  be  punished." 

"  I  did  not  know  it  was  any  harm  —  hi !  —  hi !  —  " 

"Well,  and  — " 

"  And  old  Ben  helped  us." 

"Well?" 

"And  — and  — and  — hi!  — hi!—  The  tail  of  the 
kite,  sir!  —  " 

"Where  is  the  kite?" 

Alas  !  the  kite  and  its  tail  were  long  ago  gone  to  that 
undiscovered  limbo  where  all  things  lost,  broken,  van- 
ished, and  destroyed,  —  things  that  lose  themselves, 
for  servants  are  too  honest  to  steal;  things  that  break 
themselves,  for  servants  are  too  careful  to  break,  — 
find  an  everlasting  and  impenetrable  refuge. 

"It  does  not  signify  a  pin's  head,"  said  the  clerk; 
"  the  parish  must  find  a  new  un  !  " 

"  It  is  no  fault  of  mine, "  said  the  pastor.  "  Are  my 
chops  ready  1  " 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  23 


CHAPTER  II. 

And  soothed  with  idle  dreams  the  frowning  fate. 


Crabbb. 


"  Why  does  not  my  father  come  back  1     What  a  time  he 
has  been  away !  " 

"  My  dear  Philip,  business  detains  him :  but  he  will 
be  here  in  a  few  days,  —  perhaps,  to-day  !  " 

"  I  should  like  him  to  see  how  much  I  am  improved. " 

"  Improved  in  what,  Philip  1  "  said  the  mother,  with 
a  smile.  "  Not  Latin,  I  am  sure ;  for  I  have  not  seen 
you  open  a  book  since  you  insisted  on  poor  Todd's 
dismissal. " 

"  Todd !  Oh,  he  was  such  a  scrub,  and  spoke  through 
his  nose :  what  could  he  know  of  Latin  ?  " 

"  More  than  you  ever  will,  I  fear,  unless  —  "  and  here 
there  was  a  certain  hesitation  in  the  mother's  voice,  — 
"  imless  your  father  consents  to  your  going  to  school. " 

"Well,  I  should  like  to  go  to  Eton!  That's  the 
only  school  for  a  gentleman.  I  've  heard  my  father 
say  so." 

"  Philip,  you  are  too  proud. " 

"  Proud !  —  you  often  call  me  proud ;  but,  then,  you 
kiss  me  when  you  do  so.     Kiss  me  now,  mother. " 

The  lady  drew  her  son  to  her  breast,  put  aside  the 
clustering  hair  from  his  forehead,  and  kissed  him;  but 
the  kiss  was  sad,  and  a  moment  after  she  pushed  him 
away  gently,  and  muttered,  unconscious  that  she  was 
overheard,  — 

"  If,  after  all,  my  devotion  to  the  father  should  wrong 
the  children !  " 


24  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

The  boy  started,  and  a  cloud  passed  over  his  brow; 
but  he  said  notliing.  A  hght  step  entered  the  room 
through  the  French  casements  that  opened  on  the  lawn, 
and  the  mother  turned  to  her  youngest  born,  and  her 
eye  brightened. 

"  Mamma !  mamma !  here  is  a  letter  for  you.  I 
snatched  it  from  John:  it  is  papa's  handwriting." 

The  lady  uttered  a  joyous  exclamation,  and  seized 
the  letter.  The  younger  child  nestled  himself  on  a  stool 
at  her  feet,  looking  up  while  she  read  it ;  the  elder  stood 
apart,  leaning  on  his  gun,  and  with  something  of  thought, 
even  of  gloom,  upon  his  countenance. 

There  was  a  strong  contrast  in  the  two  boys.  The 
elder,  who  was  about  fifteen,  seemed  older  than  he  was, 
not  only  from  his  height,  but  from  the  darkness  of  his 
complexion,  and  a  certain  proud,  nay,  imperious  expres- 
sion upon  features  that,  without  having  the  soft  and 
fluent  graces  of  childhood,  were  yet  regular  and  striking. 
His  dark-green  shooting-dress,  with  the  belt  and  pouch, 
the  cap,  with  its  gold  tassel  set  upon  his  luxuriant  curls, 
which  had  the  purple  gloss  of  the  raven's  plume, 
blended,  perhaps,  something  prematurely  manly  in  his 
own  tastes,  with  the  love  of  the  fantastic  and  the  pictur- 
esque which  bespeaks  the  presiding  genius  of  the  proud 
mother.  The  younger  son  had  scarcely  told  his  ninth 
year;  and  the  soft,  auburn  ringlets,  descending  half- 
way down  the  shoulders;  the  rich  and  delicate  bloom 
that  exhibits  at  once  the  hardy  health  and  the  gentle 
fostering;  the  large,  deep-blue  eyes,  the  flexile  and  al- 
most eff'eminate  contour  of  the  harmonious  features,  — 
altogether  made  such  an  ideal  of  childlike  beauty  as  Law- 
rence had  loved  to  paint  or  Chantrey  model.  And  the 
daintiest  cares  of  a  mother,  who,  as  yet,  has  her  darling 
all  to  herself,  —  her  toy,  her  plaything,  —  were  visible 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  25 

in  the  large  falling  collar  of  finest  cambric,  and  the 
blue  velvet  dress  with  its  filigree  buttons  and  embroid- 
ered sash. 

Both  the  boys  had  about  them  the  air  of  those  whom 
fate  ushers  blandly  into  life,  —  the  air  of  wealth  and 
birth  and  luxury,  spoiled  and  pampered  as  if  earth  had 
no  thorn  for  their  feet,  and  heaven  not  a  wind  to  visit 
their  young  cheeks  too  roughly.  The  mother  had  been 
extremely  handsome;  and,  though  the  first  bloom  of 
youth  was  now  gone,  she  had  still  the  beauty  that 
might  captivate  new  love,  — an  easier  task  than  to  retain 
the  old.  Both  her  sons,  though  differing  from  each 
other,  resembled  her:  she  had  the  features  of  the 
younger ;  and  probably  any  one  who  had  seen  her  in  her 
own  earlier  youth,  would  have  recognized  in  that  child's 
gay  yet  gentle  countenance,  the  mirror  of  the  mother 
when  a  girl.  Now,  however,  especially  when  silent  or 
thoughtful,  the  expression  of  her  face  was  rather  that 
of  the  elder  boy:  the  cheek,  once  so  rosy,  was  now  pale 
though  clear,  with  something,  which  time  had  given,  of 
pride  and  thought  in  the  curved  lip  and  the  high  fore- 
head. One  who  could  have  looked  on  her  in  her  more 
lonely  hours,  might  have  seen  that  the  pride  had  known 
shame,  and  the  thought  was  the  shadow  of  the  passions 
of  fear  and  sorrow. 

But  now  as  she  read  those  hasty,  brief,  but  well- 
remembered  characters ,  —  read  as  one  whose  heart  was 
in  her  eyes, — joy  and  triumph  alone  were  visible  in 
that  eloquent  countenance.  Her  eyes  flashed,  her  breast 
heaved:  and  at  length,  clasping  the  letter  to  her  lips, 
she  kissed  it  again  and  again  with  passionate  transport. 
Then,  as  her  eyes  met  the  dark,  inquiring,  earnest 
gaze  of  her  eldest  born,  she  flung  her  arms  round  him, 
and  wept  vehemently. 


26  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

"What  is  the  matter,  mamma,  dear  mamma?"  said 
the  youugest,  pushing  himself  between  Philip  and  his 
mother. 

"  Your  father  is  coming  back,  this  day,  —  this  very 
hour;  and  you  —  you  —  child  —  you,  Philip  —  "  Here 
sobs  broke  in  upon  her  words,  and  left  her  speechless. 

The  letter  that  had  produced  this  effect  ran  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

TO   MRS.    MORTON,    FERNSIDE   COTTAGE. 

Dearest  Kate,  —  My  last  letter  prepared  you  for  the  news 
I  have  now  to  relate,  —  my  poor  uncle  is  no  more.  Though 
I  had  seen  so  little  of  him,  especially  of  late  years,  his  death 
sensibly  affected  me ;  but  I  have  at  least  the  consolation  of 
thinking,  that  there  is  nothing  now  to  prevent  my  doing  jus- 
tice to  you.  I  am  the  sole  heir  to  his  fortune,  —  I  have  it  in 
my  power,  dearest  Kate,  to  offer  you  a  tardy  recompense  for 
all  you  have  put  up  with  for  my  sake  ;  a  sacred  testimony  to 
your  long  forbearance,  your  unreproachful  love,  5'our  wrongs, 
and  your  devotion.  Our  children,  too,  —  my  noble  Philip !  — 
kiss  them,  Kate,  kiss  them  for  me  a  thousand  times. 

I  write  in  great  haste, — the  burial  is  just  over,  and  my 
letter  will  only  serve  to  announce  my  return.  My  darling 
Catherine,  I  shall  be  with  you  almost  as  soon  as  these  lines 
meet  your  eyes,  —  those  dear  eyes,  that,  for  all  the  tears  they 
have  shed  for  my  faults  and  follies,  have  never  looked  the 
less  kind. 

Yours,  ever  as  ever, 

Philip  Beaufort. 

This  letter  has  told  its  tale  and  little  remains  to  ex- 
plain. Philip  Beaufort  was  one  of  those  men  of  whom 
there  are  many  in  his  peculiar  class  of  society, — easy, 
thoughtless,  good-humored,  generous,  with  feelings 
infinitely  better  than  his  principles. 

Inheriting  himself  but  a  moderate  fortune,  which, 
was  three  parts  in  the  hands  of  the  Jews  before  he  was 


NIGHT   AND   JklORNING.  27 

twenty-five,  he  had  the  most  brilliant  expectations  from 
his  uncle,  —  an  old  bachelor,  who,  from  a  courtier, 
had  turned  a  misanthrope,  cold,  shrewd,  penetrating, 
worldly,  sarcastic,  and  imperious;  and  from  this  relation 
he  received,  meanwhile,  a  handsome,  and  indeed  munifi- 
cent allowance.  About  sixteen  years  before  the  date  at 
which  this  narrative  opens,  Philip  Beaufort  had  "  run 
off,"  as  the  saying  is,  with  Catherine  Morton,  then  little 
more  than  a  child,  —  a  motherless  child,  —  educated 
at  a  boarding-school  to  notions  and  desires  far  beyond 
her  station;  for  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  provincial 
tradesman.  And  Philip  Beaufort,  in  the  prime  of  life, 
was  possessed  of  most  of  the  qualities  that  dazzle  the 
eyes,  and  many  of  the  arts  that  betray  the  affections. 
It  was  suspected  by  some  that  they  were  privately  mar- 
ried: if  so,  the  secret  had  been  closely  kept,  and  baffled 
all  the  inquiries  of  the  stern  old  uncle.  Still  there 
was  much,  not  only  in  the  manner,  at  once  modest  and 
dignified,  but  in  the  character  of  Catherine,  which  was 
proud  and  high-spirited,  to  give  color  to  the  suspicion. 
Beaufort,  a  man  naturally  careless  of  forms,  paid  her  a 
marked  and  punctilious  respect;  and  his  attachment  was 
evidently  one  not  only  of  passion  but  of  confidence  and 
esteem.  Time  developed  in  her  mental  qualities  far 
superior  to  those  of  Beaufort,  and  for  these  she  had 
ample  leisure  of  cultivation.  To  the  influence  derived 
from  her  mind  and  person  she  added  that  of  a  frank, 
affectionate,  and  winning  disposition;  their  children 
cemented  the  bond  between  them.  Mr.  Beaufort  was 
passionately  attached  to  field-sports.  He  lived  the 
greater  part  of  the  year  with  Catherine,  at  the  beautiful 
cottage  to  which  he  had  built  hunting-stables  that  Avere 
the  admiration  of  the  county ;  and  though  the  cottage 
was  near  London,  the  pleasures  of  the  metropolis  seldom 


28  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

allured  liim  for  more  than  a  few  days  —  generally  but  a 
few  hours  —  at  a  time ;  and  he  always  hurried  back  with 
renewed  relish  to  what  he  considered  his  home. 

Whatever  the  connection  between  Catherine  and  him- 
self (and  of  the  true  nature  of  that  connection,  tlie  intro- 
ductory chapter  has  made  the  reader  more  enlightened 
than  the  world),  her  influence  had,  at  least,  weaned 
from  all  excesses,  and  many  follies,  a  man  who,  before  he 
knew  her,  had  seemed  likely,  from  the  extreme  joviality 
and  carelessness  of  his  nature,  and  a  very  imperfect 
education,  to  contract  whatever  vices  were  most  in 
fashion  as  preservatives  against  ennif.L  And  if  their 
union  had  been  openly  hallowed  by  the  church,  Philip 
Beaufort  had  been  universally  esteemed  the  model  of  a 
tender  husband  and  a  fond  father.  Ever,  as  he  became 
more  and  more  acquainted  with  Catherine's  natural 
good  qualities,  and  more  and  more  attached  to  his  home, 
had  Mr.  Beaufort,  with  the  generosity  of  true  affection, 
desired  to  remove  from  her  the  pain  of  an  equivocal  con- 
dition by  a  public  marriage.  But  Mr.  Beaufort,  though 
generous,  was  not  free  from  the  worldliness  which  had 
met  him  everywhere,  amidst  the  society  in  which  his 
youth  had  been  spent.  His  uncle,  the  head  of  one  of 
those  families  which  yearly  vanish  from  the  commonalty 
into  the  peerage,  but  which  once  formed  a  distinguished 
peculiarity  in  the  aristocracy  of  England,  —  families  of 
ancient  birth,  immense  possessions,  at  once  noble  and 
untitled,  —  held  his  estates  by  no  other  tenure  than  his 
own  caprice.  Though  he  professed  to  like  Philip,  yet 
he  saw  but  little  of  him.  When  the  news  of  the 
illicit  connection  his  nephew  was  reported  to  have 
formed  reached  him,  he  at  first  resolved  to  break  it  off; 
but  observing  that  Philip  no  longer  gambled,  nor  run 
in  deljt,  and  had  retired  from  the  turf  to  the  safer  and 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  29 

more  economical  pastimes  of  the  field,  he  contented 
himself  with  inquiries  which  satisfied  him  that  Philip 
was  not  married ;  and  perhaps  he  thought  it,  on  the 
whole,  more  prudent  to  wink  at  an  error  that  was  not 
attended  by  the  bills  which  had  heretofore  character- 
ized the  human  infirmities  of  his  reckless  nephew.  He 
took  care,  however,  incidentally,  and  in  reference  to 
some  scandal  of  the  day,  to  pronounce  his  opinion,  not 
upon  the  fault,  but  upon  the  only  mode  of  repairing  it. 

"  If  ever,"  said  he,  —  and  he  looked  grimly  at  Philip 
while  he  spoke,  —  "a  gentleman  were  to  disgrace  his 
ancestry  by  introducing  into  his  family  one  whom  his 
own  sister  could  not  receive  at  her  house,  why,  he  ought 
to  sink  to  her  level,  and  wealth  would  but  make  his 
disgrace  the  more  notorious.  If  I  had  an  only  son,  and 
that  son  were  booby  enough  to  do  anything  so  discred- 
itable as  to  marry  beneath  him,  I  would  rather  have  my 
footman  for  my  successor.      You  understand,  Phil?  " 

Philip  did  understand,  and  looked  round  at  the  noble 
house  and  the  stately  park,  and  his  generosity  was  not 
equal  to  the  trial.  Catherine  —  so  great  was  her  power 
over  him  —  might,  perhaps,  have  easily  triumphed  over 
his  more  selfish  calculations;  but  her  love  was  too  deli- 
cate ever  to  breathe,  of  itself,  the  hope  that  lay  deepest 
at  her  heart.  And  her  children!  ah!  for  them  she 
pined,  but  for  them  she  also  hoped.  Before  them  was 
a  long  future,  and  she  had  all  confidence  in  Philip. 
Of  late,  there  had  been  considerable  doubts  how  far  the 
elder  Beaufort  would  realize  the  expectations  in  which 
his  nephew  had  been  reared.  Philip's  younger  brother 
had  been  much  with  the  old  gentleman,  and  appeared  to 
be  in  high  favor :  this  brother  was  a  man  in  every  re- 
spect opposite  to  Philip,  —  sober,  supple,  decorous,  am- 
bitious, with  a  face  of  smiles  and  a  heart  of  ice. 


30  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

But  the  old  gentleman  was  taken  dangerously  ill, 
and  Philip  was  summoned  to  his  bed  of  death.  Robert, 
the  younger  brother,  was  there  also,  with  his  wife  (for 
he  had  married  prudently)  and  his  children  (he  had 
two,  a  son  and  a  daughter).  Not  a  word  did  the  uncle 
say  as  to  the  disposition  of  his  property  till  an  hour 
before  he  died.  And  then,  turning  in  his  bed,  he 
looked  first  at  one  nephew,  then  at  the  other,  and 
faltered  out,  — 

"  Philip,  you  are  a  scapegrace,  but  a  gentleman!  Rob- 
ert, you  are  a  careful,  sober,  plausible  man;  and  it  is  a 
great  pity  you  were  not  in  business:  you  would  have 
made  a  fortune! — you  won't  inherit  one,  though  you 
think  it.  I  have  marked  you,  sir.  Philip,  beware  of 
your  brother.     Now,  let  me  see  the  parson." 

The  old  man  died;  the  will  was  read;  and  Philip 
succeeded  to  a  rental  of  £20,000  a  year;  Robert,  to  a 
diamond  ring,  a  gold  repeater,  £5000,  and  a  curious 
collection  of  bottled  snakes. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  31 


CHAPTER    III. 

Stay,  delightful  Dream ; 
Let  him  within  his  pleasant  garden  walk  ; 
Give  him  her  arm,  —  of  blessings  let  them  talk. 

Crabbe. 

"There,  Robert,  there!  now  you  can  see  the  new 
stables.  By  Jove,  they  are  the  completest  thing  in  the 
three  kingdoms !  " 

"  Quite  a  pile !  But  is  that  the  house  ?  You  lodge 
your  horses  more  magnificently  than  yourself," 

"But  is  it  not  a  beautiful  cottage?  —  to  be  sure,  it 
owes  everything  to  Catherine's  taste.     Dear  Catherine !  " 

Mr,  Robert  Beaufort,  —  for  this  colloquy  took  place 
between  the  brothers  as  their  britska  rapidly  descended 
the  hill,  at  the  foot  of  which  lay  Fernside  Cottage  and 
its  miniature  demesnes,  —  Mr,  Robert  Beaufort  pulled 
his  travelling-cap  over  his  brows,  and  his  countenance 
fell,  whether  at  the  name  of  Catherine,  or  the  tone  in 
which  the  name  was  uttered;  and  there  was  a  pause, 
broken  by  a  third  occupant  of  the  britska,  a  youth  of 
about  seventeen,  who  sat  opposite  the  brothers, 

"  And  who  are  those  boys  on  the  lawn ,  uncle  1  " 

"  Who  are  those  boys?  "  It  was  a  simple  question, 
but  it  grated  on  the  ear  of  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort,  —  it 
struck  discord  at  his  heart,  "  Who  were  those  boys  1  " 
as  they  ran  across  the  sward,  eager  to  welcome  their 
father  home,  the  westering  sun  shining  full  on  their 
joyous  faces,  their  young  forms  so  lithe  and  so  graceful, 
their  merry  laughter  ringing  in  the  still  air.     "  Those 


32  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

boys,"  thought  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort,  "the  sons  of 
shame,  rob  mine  of  his  inheritance,"  The  ehler  brother 
turned  round  at  his  nephew's  q\iestion,  and  saw  the 
expression  on  Robert's  face.  He  bit  his  lip,  and  an- 
swered gravely, — 

"Arthur,  they  are  my  children." 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  married,"  replied  Arthur, 
bending  forward  to  take  a  better  view  of  his  cousins. 

Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  smiled  bitterly,  and  Philip's 
brow  grew  crimson. 

The  carriage  stopped  at  the  little  lodge,  Philip 
opened  the  door,  and  jumped  to  the  ground;  the 
brother  and  his  son  followed.  A  moment  more,  and 
Philip  was  locked  in  Catherine's  arms,  her  tears  falling 
fast  upon  his  breast;  his  children  plucking  at  his  coat; 
and  the  younger  one  crying,  in  his  shrill  impatient 
treble,  "  Papa!  papa!  you  don't  see  Sidney,  papa!  " 

Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  placed  his  hand  on  his  son's 
shoulder,  and  arrested  his  steps,  as  they  contemplated 
the  group  before  them. 

"  Arthur,"  said  he,  in  a  hollow  whisper,  "  those  chil- 
dren are  our  disgrace  and  your  supplanters ;  they  are  bas- 
tards !  bastards !  and  they  are  to  be  his  heirs !  " 

Arthur  made  no  answer,  but  the  smile  with  which  he 
had  hitherto  gazed  on  his  new  relations  vanished. 

"Kate,"  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  as  he  turned  from  Mrs. 
Morton,  and  lifted  his  youngest  born  in  his  arms,  "  this 
is  my  brother  and  his  son :  they  are  welcome,  are  they 
not?" 

Mr.  Robert  bowed  low,  and  extended  his  hand,  with 
stiff  affability,  to  Mrs.  Morton,  muttering  something 
equally  complimentary  and  inaudible. 

The  party  proceeded  towards  the  house.  Philip  and 
Arthur  brought  up  the  rear. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING,  33 

"  Do  you  shoot  1  "  asked  Arthur,  observing  the  gun 
in  his  cousin's  hand. 

"  Yes.  I  hope  this  season  to  bag  as  many  head  as  my 
father:  he  is  a  famous  shot.  But  this  is  only  a  single 
barrel,  and  an  old-fashioned  sort  of  detonator.  My 
father  must  get  me  one  of  the  new  guns.  I  can't  afford 
it  myself. " 

"  I  should  think  not,"  said  Arthur,  smiling. 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,"  resumed  Philip,  quickly,  and  with 
a  heightened  color,  "  I  could  have  managed  it  very 
well  if  I  had  not  given  thirty  guineas  for  a  brace  of 
pointers  the  other  day :  they  are  the  best  dogs  you  ever 
saw. " 

"  Thirty  guineas !  "  echoed  Arthur,  looking  with  naive 
surprise  at  the  speaker ;  "  why ,  how  old  are  you  1  " 

"  Just  fifteen  last  birthday.  Holla,  John !  John 
Green!"  cried  the  young  gentleman,  in  an  imperious 
voice,  to  one  of  the  gardeners,  who  was  crossing  the 
lawn,  "  see  that  the  nets  are  taken  down  to  the  lake  to- 
morrow, and  that  my  tent  is  pitched  properly,  by  the 
lime-trees,  by  nine  o'clock.  I  hope  you  will  under- 
stand me  this  time :  Heaven  knows  you  take  a  deal  of 
telling  before  you  understand  anything!  " 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Philip,"  said  the  man,  bowing  obsequi- 
ously; and  then  muttered,  as  he  went  off,  "Drat  the 
nat'rel!  he  speaks  to  a  poor  man  as  if  he  warn't  flesh 
and  blood." 

"  Does  your  father  keep  hunters  ?  "  asked  Philip. 

"No." 

«  Why  1  " 

"Perhaps  one  reason  may  be,  that  he  is  not  rich 
enough." 

"  Oh!  that 's  a  pity.  Never  mind,  we  '11  mount  you, 
whenever  you  like  to  pay  us  a  visit." 

VOL.  I. — 3 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 


Young  Arthur  drew  himself  up,  and  his  air,  naturally 
frank  and  gentle,  became  haughty  and  reserved. 
Philip  gazed  on  him,  and  felt  offended;  he  scarce 
knew  why,  but  from  that  moment  he  conceived  a  dislike 
to  his  cousin. 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  35 


CHAPTER  IV. 

For  a  man  is  helpless  and  vain,  of  a  condition  so  exposed  to  calam- 
ity that  a  raisin  is  able  to  kill  him :  any  trooper  out  of  the 
Egyptian  army,  —  a  fly  can  do  it,  when  it  goes  on  God's  errand. 
—  Jeremy  Taylor,  On  the  Deceitfulness  of  the  Heai-t. 

The  two  brothers  sat  at  their  wine  after  dinner.  Rob- 
ert sipped  claret,  the  sturdy  Philip  quaffed  his  more 
generous  port.  Catherine  and  the  boys  might  be  seen 
at  a  little  distance,  and  by  the  light  of  a  soft  August 
moon,  among  the  shrubs  and  bosquets  of  the  lawn. 

Philip  Beaufort  was  about  five-and-forty,  tall,  robust, 
nay,  of  great  strength  of  frame  and  limb;  with  a  coun- 
tenance extremely  winning,  not  only  from  the  comeli- 
ness of   its  features,  but  its  frankness,  manliness,  and 
good-nature.      His  was  the    bronzed,  rich    complexion, 
the  inclination  towards  embonpoint,  the  athletic  girth 
of  chest,  which  denote  redundant  health  and  mirthful 
temper  and   sanguine   blood.       Robert,  who  had  lived 
the  life  of  cities,  was  a  year  younger  than  his  brother; 
nearly  as  tall,  but  pale,  meagre,  stooping,  and  with  a 
careworn,  anxious,  hungry  look,  which  made  the  smile 
that  hung  upon  his  lips  seem  hollow  and  artificial.     His 
dress,  though  plain,  was  neat  and  studied;  his  manner 
bland  and  plausible ;  his  voice  sweet  and  low.     There  was 
that  about  him  which,  if  it  did  not  win  liking,  tended  to 
excite  respect,  —  a  certain  decorum,  a  nameless  propriety 
of  appearance  and  bearing,  that  approached  a  little  to 
formality:    his   every   movement,   slow  and    measured, 
was  that   of   one  who  paced   in  the  circle  that  fences 
round  the  habits  and  usages  of  the  world. 


36  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

"Yes,"  yaid  Philip,  "I  had  always  decided  to  take 
this  step,  whenever  my  poor  uncle's  death  should  allow 
me  to  do  so.  You  have  seen  Catherine,  but  you  do  not 
know  half  her  good  qualities:  she  would  grace  any 
station;  and,  besides,  she  nursed  me  so  carefully  last 
year,  when  I  broke  my  collar-bone  in  that  cursed  steeple- 
chase. Egad,  I  am  getting  too  heavy,  and  growing  too 
old,  for  such  schoolboy  pranks." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  Mrs.  Morton's  excellence,  and  I 
honor  your  motives;  still,  when  you  talk  of  her  gracing 
any  station,  you  must  not  forget,  my  dear  brother,  that 
she  will  be  no  more  received  as  Mrs.  Beaufort  than  she 
is  now  as  Mrs.  Morton. " 

"  But  I  tell  you,  Robert,  that  I  am  really  married  to 
her  already;  that  she  would  never  have  left  her  home 
but  on  that  condition ;  that  we  were  married  the  very 
day  we  met  after  her  flight. " 

Robert's  thin  lips  broke  into  a  slight  sneer  of 
incredulity. 

"My  dear  brother,  you  do  right  to  say  this,  —  any 
man  in  your  situation  would  say  the  same.  But  I  know 
that  my  uncle  took  every  pains  to  ascertain  if  the  re- 
port of  a  private  marriage  were  true." 

"  And  you  helped  him  in  the  search,  eh,  Bob?  " 

Bob  slightly  blushed.     Philip  went  on. 

"  Ha,  ha!  to  be  sure  you  did;  you  knew  that  such  a 
discovery  would  have  done  for  me  in  the  old  gentleman's 
good  opinion.  But  I  blinded  you  both,  ha,  ha!  The 
fact  is  that  we  were  married  with  the  greatest  privacy; 
that  even  now,  I  own,  it  would  be  difficult  for  Catherine 
herself  to  establish  the  fact,  unless  I  wished  it.  I  am 
ashamed  to  think  that  I  have  never  even  told  her  where 
I  keep  the  main  proof  of  the  marriage.  I  induced  one 
witness   to  leave  the   country,  the  other  must  be  long 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  37 

since  dead:  my  poor  friend,  too,  who  officiated,  is  no 
more.  Even  the  register.  Bob,  the  register  itself  has 
been  destroyed:  and  yet,  notwithstanding,  I  will  prove 
the  ceremony,  and  clear  up  poor  Catherine's  fame;  for  I 
have  the  attested  copy  of  the  register  safe  and  sound. 
Catherine  not  married!  why,  look  at  her,  man!  " 

Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  glanced  at  the  window  for  a 
moment,  but  his  countenance  was  still  that  of  one 
unconvinced. 

"Well,  brother,"  said  he,  dipping  his  fingers  in  the 
water-glass,  "  it  is  not  for  me  to  contradict  you.  It  is  a 
very  curious  tale:  parson  dead,  —  witnesses  missing. 
But  still,  as  I  said  before,  if  you  are  resolved  on 
a  public  marriage,  you  are  wise  to  insist  that  there 
has  been  a  previous  private  one.  Yet,  believe  me, 
Philip,"  continued  Robert  with  solemn  earnestness, 
"the  world  —  " 

"  D —  the  world !  What  do  I  care  for  the  world ! 
We  don't  want  to  go  to  routs  and  balls,  and  give  dinners 
to  fine  people.  I  shall  live  much  the  same  as  I  have 
always  done ;  only  I  shall  now  keep  the  hounds,  —  they 
are  very  indifferently  kept  at  present,  —  and  have  a 
yacht;  and  engage  the  best  masters  for  the  boys.  Phil 
wants  to  go  to  Eton,  but  I  know  what  Eton  is:  poor 
fellow!  his  feelings  might  be  hurt  there,  if  others  are 
as  sceptical  as  yourself.  I  suppose  ray  old  friends  will 
not  be  less  civil,  now  I  have  £20,000  a  year.  And  as 
for  the  society  of  women,  between  you  and  me,  I  don't 
care  a  rush  for  any  woman  but  Catherine :  poor  Katty !  " 

"Well,  you  are  the  best  judge  of  your  own  affairs: 
you  don't  misinterpret  my  motives'?  " 

"  My  dear  Bob,  no.  I  am  quite  sensible  how  kind  it 
is  in  you,  —  a  man  of  your  starch  habits  and  strict  views 
coming  here  to  pay  a  mark  of  respect  to  Kate  "  (Mr. 


38  NIGHT   AND   MORXIXG. 

Robert  turned  uneasily  in  his  chair) ;  "  even  before  you 
knew  of  the  private  marriage,  and  I  am  sure  I  don't 
blame  you  for  never  having  done  it  before.  You  did 
quite  right  to  try  your  chance  with  my  uncle." 

Mr.  Robert  turned  in  his  chair  again,  still  more 
uneasily,  and  cleared  his  voice  as  if  to  speak.  But 
Philip  tossed  off  his  wine,  and  proceeded  without  heed- 
ing his  brother, — 

"  And  though  the  poor  old  man  does  not  seem  to 
have  liked  you  tlie  better  for  consulting  his  scruples, 
yet  we  must  make  up  for  the  partiality  of  his  will. 
Let  me  see,  —  what,  with  your  wife's  fortune,  you 
muster  £2000  a  year?" 

"  Only  £1500,  Philip,  and  Arthur's  education  is 
growing  expensive.  Next  year  he  goes  to  college.  He 
is  certainly  very  clever,  and  I  have  great  hopes  —  " 

"  That  he  will  do  honor  to  us  all,  — so  have  I.  He 
is  a  noble  young  fellow;  and  I  think  my  Philip  may 
find  a  great  deal  to  learn  from  him :  Phil  is  a  sad,  idle 
dog,  —  but  with  a  devil  of  a  spirit,  and  sharp  as  a  needle. 
I  wish  you  could  see  him  ride.  Well,  to  return  to 
Arthur.  Don't  trouble  yourself  about  his  education, — 
that  shall  be  my  care.  He  shall  go  to  Christ  Church, 
—  a  gentleman-commoner  of  course,  —  and  when  he  's  of 
age  we  '11  get  him  into  Parliament.  Now  for  yourself, 
Bob.  I  shall  sell  the  town-house  in  Berkeley  Square, 
and  whatever  it  brings  you  shall  have.  Besides  that, 
I  '11  add  £1500  a  year  to  your  £1500,  —  so  that's  said 
and  done.  Pshaw!  brothers  should  be  brothers. — Let's 
come  out  and  play  with  the  boys!  " 

The  two  Beauforts  stepped  through  the  open  casement 
into  the  lawn. 

"  You  look  pale.  Bob,  —  all  you  London  fellows  do. 
As  for  me,  I  feel  as  strong  as  a  horse;  much  better  than 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  39 

when  I  was  one  of  your  gay  dogs  straying  loose  about 
the  town!  'Gad,  I  have  never  had  a  moment's  ill 
health,  except  from  a  fall  now  and  then.  I  feel  as  if  I 
should  live  forever,  and  that 's  the  reason  why  I  could 
never  make  a  will." 

"  Have  you  never,  then,  made  your  will  ?  " 

"  Never  as  yet.  Faith,  till  now,  I  had  little  enough 
to  leave.  But  now  that  all  this  great  Beaufort  property 
is  at  my  own  disposal,  I  must  think  of  Kate's  jointure. 
By  Jove!  now  I  speak  of  it,  I  will  ride  to  to- 
morrow, and  consult  the  lawyer  there  both  about  the  will 
and  the  marriage.     You  will  stay  for  the  wedding  1  " 

"  Why ,  I  7nust  go  into shire  to-morrow  evening 

to  place  Arthur  with  his  tutor.  But  I  '11  return  for  the 
wedding,  if  you  particularly  wish  it:  only  Mrs.  Beau- 
fort is  a  woman  of  very  strict  —  " 

"  I  do  particularly  wish  it,"  interrupted  Philip, 
gravely;  "for  I  desire,  for  Catherine's  sake,  that  you, 
my  sole  surviving  relation,  may  not  seem  to  withhold 
your  countenance  from  an  act  of  justice  to  her.  And  as 
for  your  wife,  I  fancy  £1500  a  year  would  reconcile  her 
to  my  marrying  out  of  the  Penitentiary." 

Mr.  Eobert  bowed  his  head,  coughed  huskily,  and 
said,  "  I  appreciate  your  generous  affection,  Philip." 

The  next  morning,  while  the  elder  parties  were  still 
over  the  breakfast-table,  the  young  people  were  in  the 
grounds:  it  was  a  lovely  day,  one  of  the  last  of  the 
luxuriant  August,  —  and  Arthur,  as  he  looked  round, 
thought  he  had  never  seen  a  more  beautiful  place.  It 
was,  indeed,  just  the  spot  to  captivate  a  youthful  and 
susceptible  fancy.  The  village  of  Fernside,  though  in 
one  of  the  counties  adjoining  Middlesex,  and  as  near  to 
London  as  the  owner's  passionate  pursuits  of  the  field 
would   permit,   was  yet  as  rural  and  sequestered  as  if 


40  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

a  hundred  miles  distant  from  the  smoke  of  the  huge 
city.  Though  the  dwelling  was  called  a  cottage,  Philip 
had  enlarged  the  original  modest  building  into  a  villa 
of  some  pretensions.  On  either  side  a  graceful  and 
well-proportioned  portico  stretched  verandas,  covered 
with  roses  and  clematis ;  to  the  right  extended  a  range 
of  costly  conservatories,  terminating  in  vistas  of  trellis- 
Avork,  which  formed  those  elegant  alleys  called  rosaries, 
and  served  to  screen  the  more  useful  gardens  from  view. 
The  lawn,  smooth  and  even,  was  studded  with  American 
plants  and  shrubs  in  flower,  and  bounded  on  one  side  by 
a  small  lake,  on  the  opposite  bank  of  which  limes  and 
cedars  threw  their  shadows  over  the  clear  waves.  On 
the  other  side  a  light  fence  separated  the  grounds  from 
a  large  paddock,  in  which  three  or  four  hunters  grazed 
in  indolent  enjoyment.  It  was  one  of  those  cottages 
which  bespeak  the  ease  and  luxury  not  often  found  in 
more  ostentatious  mansions:  an  abode  which,  at  sixteen, 
the  visitor  contemplates  with  vague  notions  of  poetry 
and  love, — Avhich,  at  forty,  he  might  think  dull  and 
d — d  expensive;  which,  at  sixty,  he  would  pronounce  to 
be  damp  in  winter,  and  full  of  earwigs  in  the  summer. 
Master  Philip  was  leaning  on  his  gun;  Master  Sidney 
•was  chasing  a  peacock  butterfly;  Arthur  was  silently 
gazing  on  the  shining  lake,  and  the  still  foliage  that 
drooped  over  its  surface.  In  the  countenance  of  this 
young  man  there  was  something  that  excited  a  certain 
interest.  He  was  less  handsome  than  Philip,  but  the 
expression  of  his  face  was  more  prepossessing.  There 
was  something  of  pride  in  the  forehead;  but  of  good- 
nature, not  unmixed  with  irresolution  and  weakness,  in 
the  curves  of  the  mouth.  He  was  more  delicate  of 
frame  than  Pliilip,  and  tlie  color  of  his  complexion  was 
not  that  of  a  robust  constitution.     His  movements  were 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  41 

graceful   and   self-possessed,    and   he   had   his   father's 
sweetness  of  voice. 

"This  is  really  beautiful!  —  I  envy  you,  cousin 
] 'hi  lip." 

"  Has  not  your  father  got  a  country-house  ?  " 

"No:  we  live  either  in  London  or  at  some  hot, 
crowded  watering-place," 

"Yes;  this  is  very  nice  during  the  shooting  and 
hunting  season.  But  ray  old  nurse  says  we  shall  have 
a  much  finer  place  now.  I  liked  this  very  well  till  I 
saw  Lord  Belville's  place.  But  it  is  very  unpleasant 
not  to  have  the  finest  house  in  the  county :  aut  Ccesar 
aut  nullus,  —  that's  my  motto.  Ah!  do  you  see  that 
swallow?     I  '11  bet  you  a  guinea  I  hit  it." 

"No,  poor  thing!  don't  hurt  it."  But  ere  the  re- 
monstrance was  uttered,  the  bird  lay  quivering  on  the 
ground. 

"  It  is  just  September,  and  one  must  keep  one's  hand 
in,"  said  Philip,  as  he  reloaded  his  gun. 

To  Arthur  this  action  seemed  a  wanton  cruelty ;  it 
was  rather  the  wanton  recklessness  which  belongs  to  a 
wild  boy  accustomed  to  gratify  the  impulse  of  the  mo- 
ment,—  the  recklessness  which  is  not  cruelty  in  the 
boy,  but  which  prosperity  may  pamper  into  cruelty  in 
the  man.  And  scarce  had  he  reloaded  his  gun  before 
the  neigh  of  a  young  colt  came  from  the  neighboring 
paddock,  and  Philip  bounded  to  the  fence.  "  He  calls 
me ,  poor  fellow ;  you  shall  see  him  feed  from  my  hand. 
Run  in  for  a  piece  of  bread,  —  a  large  piece,  Sidney." 
The  boy  and  the  animal  seemed  to  understand  each  other. 
"  I  see  you  don't  like  horses,"  he  said  to  Arthur.  "  As 
for  me,  I  love  dogs,  horses,  —  every  dumb  creature." 

"Except  swallows!  "  said  Arthur,  with  a  half  smile, 
and  a  little  surprised  at  the  inconsistency  of  the  boast. 


42  KIGIIT    AND    MORNING. 

"Oh!  that  is  spo7't ,  —  all  fair:  it  is  not  to  hurt  the 
swallow,  —  it  is  to  obtain  skill,"  said  Philip,  coloring; 
and  then,  as  if  not  quite  easy  with  his  own  definition, 
he  turned  away  abruptly. 

"This  is  dull  work, — suppose  we  fish.  By  Jove!  " 
(he  had  caught  his  father's  expletive)  "  that  blockhead 
has  put  the  tent  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  lake,  after  all. 
Holla,  you,  sir!  "  and  the  unhappy  gardener  looked  up 
from  his  fiower-beds;  "what  ails  you?  I  have  a  great 
mind  to  tell  my  father  of  you,  —  you  grow  stupider  every 
day.     I  told  you  to  put  the  tent  under  the  lime-trees." 

"We  could  not  manage  it,  sir;  the  boughs  were  in 
the  way." 

"  And  why  did  not  you  cut  the  boughs,  blockhead  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  dare  do  so,  sir,  without  master's  orders," 
said  the  man,  doggedly. 

"  My  orders  are  sufficient,  I  should  think;  so  none  of 
your  impertinence,"  cried  Philip,  with  a  raised  color; 
and,  lifting  his  hand,  in  which  he  held  his  ramrod,  he 
shook  it  menacingly  over  the  gardener's  head:  "  I  've  a 
great  mind  to  —  " 

"  What 's  the  matter,  Philip  1 "  cried  the  good- 
humored  voice  of  his  father.     "Fie!" 

"  This  fellow  does  not  mind  what  I  say,  sir." 

"  I  did  not  like  to  cut  the  boughs  of  the  lime-trees 
without  your  orders,  sir,"  said  the  gardener. 

"No,  it  would  be  a  pity  to  cut  them.  You  should 
consult  me  there.  Master  Philip;  "  and  the  father  shook 
him  by  the  collar  with  a  good-natured  and  affectionate 
but  rough  sort  of  caress. 

"Be  quiet,  father!"  said  the  boy,  petulantly  and 
proudly;  "or,"  he  added,  in  a  lower  voice,  but  one 
wliich  showed  emotion,  "  my  cousin  may  think  you 
mean  less  kindly  than  you  always  do,  sir." 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  43 

The  father  was  touched :  "  Go  and  cut  the  lime- 
boughs,  John;  and   always  do   as   Master   Philip   tells 

you." 

The  mother  was  behind,  and  she  sighed  audiblj^.  — 
"Ah!  dearest,  I  fear  you  will  spoil  him." 

"  Is  he  not  your  son?  and  do  we  not  owe  him  the  more 
respect  for  having  hitherto  allowed  others  to  —  " 

He  stopped,  and  the  mother  could  say  no  more.  And 
thus  it  was,  that  this  boy  of  powerful  character  and 
strong  passions  had,  from  motives  tlie  most  amiable, 
been  pampered  from  the  darling  into  the  despot. 

"And  now,  Kate,  I  will,  as  I  told  you  last  night, 
ride  over  to and  fix  the  earliest  day  for  our  pub- 
lic marriage:  I  will  ask  the  lawyer  to  dine  here,  to 
talk  about  the  proper  steps  for  proving  the  private 
one." 

"Will  that  be  difficult?"  asked  Catherine,  with 
natural  anxiety. 

"  No,  — for,  if  you  remember,  T  had  the  precaution  to 
get  an  examined  copy  of  the  register;  otherwise,  I  own 
to  you,  I  should  have  been  alarmed.  I  don't  know 
what  has  become  of  Smith.  I  heard  some  time  since 
from  his  father  that  he  had  left  the  colony;  and  (I  never 
told  you  before,  —  it  would  have  made  you  uneasy)  once, 
a  few  years  ago,  when  my  uncle  again  got  it  into  his 
head  that  we  might  be  married,  I  was  afraid  poor  Caleb's 
successor  might,  by  chance,  betray  us.      So  I  went  over 

to  A myself,  being  near  it  when  I  was  staying  with 

Lord  C ,  in  order  to  see  how  far  it  might  be  neces- 
sary to  secure  the  parson;  and  only  think!  I  found  an 
accident  had  happened  to  the  register,  —  so,  as  the  cler- 
gyman could  know  nothing,  I  kept  my  own  counsel. 
How  lucky  I  have  the  copy !  No  doubt  the  lawyer  will 
set  all  to  rights;  and,  while  I  am  making  settlements, 


44  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

I  may  as  well  make  my  will.  I  have  plenty  for  both 
boys,  but  the  dark  one  must  be  the  heir.  Does  he  not 
look  born  to  be  an  eldest  son  ? " 

"Ah,  Philip!" 

"  Tshaw!  one  don't  die  the  sooner  for  making  a  will. 
Have  I  the  air  of  a  man  in  a  consumption  ?  "  —  and  the 
sturd}'  sportsman  glanced  complacently  at  the  strength 
antl  symmetry  of  his  manly  limbs.  "  Come,  Phil,  let  's 
go  to  the  stables.  Now,  Robert,  I  will  show  you  what 
is  better  worth  seeing  than  those  miserable  flowerbeds." 
So  saying,  Mr.  Beaufort  led  the  Avay  to  the  coiartyard  at 
the  back  of  the  cottage.  Catherine  and  Sidney  remained 
on  the  lawn:  the  rest  followed  the  host.  The  grooms, 
of  whom  Beaufort  was  the  idol,  hastened  to  show  how 
Avell  tlie  horses  had  thriven  in  his  absence. 

"Do  see  how  Brown  Bess  has  come  on,  sir;  but,  to 
be  sure.  Master  Philip  keeps  her  in  exercise.  Ah,  sir, 
he  will  be  as  good  a  rider  as  your  honor,  one  of  these 
days." 

"He  ought  to  be  a  better,  Tom;  for  I  think  he  '11 
never  have  my  weight  to  carry.  Well,  saddle  Brown 
Bess  for  Master  Philip.  What  horse  shall  I  takel 
Ah!  here's  my  old  friend.  Puppet!" 

"  I  don't  know  what's  come  to  Puppet,  sir;  he's  off 
his  feed,  and  turned  sulky.  I  tried  him  over  the  bar 
yesterday:  but  he  was  quite  restive  like." 

"  The  devil  he  was!  So,  so,  old  boy,  you  shall  go 
over  the  six-barred  gate  to-day,  or  we  '11  know  why." 
And  Mr.  Beaufort  patted  the  sleek  neck  of  his  favorite 
hunter.  "  Put  the  saddle  on  him,  Tom." 

"  Yes,  your  honor.  I  sometimes  think  he  is  hurt  in 
the  loins  somehow,  —  he  don't  take  to  his  leaps  kindly, 
and  he  always  tries  to  bite  when  we  bridles  him.  Be 
quiet,  sir!  " 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  45 

"Only  his  airs,"  said  Philip.  "I  did  not  know  this 
or  /  would  have  taken  him  over  the  gate.  Why  did  not 
you  tell  me,  Tom?" 

"  Lord  love  you,  sir!  because  you  have  such  a  spurret; 
and  if  anything  had  come  to  you  —  " 

"  Quite  right:  you  are  not  weight  enough  for  Puppet, 
my  boy;  and  he  never  did  like  any  one  to  back  him  but 
myself.     What  say  you,  brother,  will  you  ride  with  us  1  " 

"  No,  I  must  go  to to-day  with  Arthur.      I  have 

engaged  the  post-horses  at  two  o'clock;  but  I  shall  be 
Avith  you  to-morrow  or  the  day  after.  You  see  his  tutor 
expects  him;  and  as  he  is  backward  in  his  mathematics, 
he  has  no  time  to  lose." 

"  Well,  then,  good-by,  nephew!  "  and  Beaufort  slipped 
a  pocketbook  into  the  boy's  hand.  "Tush!  whenever 
you  want  money,  don't  trouble  your  father, — write  to 
me:  we  shall  be  always  glad  to  see  you;  and  you  must 
teach  Philip  to  like  his  book  a  little  better,  —  eh,  Phil  ?  " 

"No,  father;  /shall  be  rich  enough  to  do  without 
books,"  said  Philip,  rather  coarsely:  but  then  observ- 
ing the  heightened  color  of  his  cousin,  he  went  up  to 
him,  and  with  a  generous  impulse  said,  "  Arthur,  you 
admired  this  gun;  pray  accept  it.  Nay,  don't  be  shy, 
—  I  can  have  as  many  as  I  like  for  the  asking:  you  're 
not  so  well  off,  you  know." 

The  intention  was  kind,  but  the  manner  was  so 
patronizing  that  Arthur  felt  offended.  He  put  back 
the  gun,  and  said  dryly,  "  I  shall  have  no  occasion  for 
the  gun,  thank  you." 

If  Arthur  was  offended  by  the  offer,  Philip  was  much 
more  offended  by  the  refusal.  "  As  you  like ;  I  hate 
pride,"  said  he;  and  he  gave  the  gun  to  the  groom  as  he 
vaulted  into  his  saddle,  with  the  lightness  of  a  young 
Mercury.     "  Come,  father!  " 


46  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

]\Ir.  Beaufort  had  now  mounted  his  favorite  hunter, 
—  a  large,  powerful  horse,  well  known  for  its  prowess 
in  the  field.  The  rider  trotted  him  once  or  twice 
through  the  spacious  yard. 

"  Xonsense,  Tom:  no  more  hurt  in  the  loins  than  I 
am.  Open  that  gate ;  we  will  go  across  the  paddock , 
and  take  the  gate  yonder,  —  the  old  six-bar,  eh,  Phil?  " 

"  Capital !  —  to  be  sure !  —  " 

The  gate  was  opened ,  —  the  grooms  stood  watchful  to 
see  the  leap,  and  a  kindred  curiosity  arrested  Robert 
Beaufort  and  his  son. 

How  well  they  looked!  those  two  horsemen:  the  ease, 
lightness,  spirit  of  the  one,  with  the  fine-limbed  and 
fiery  steed  that  literally  "  bounded  beneath  him  as  a 
barb,"  —  seemingly  as  gay,  as  ardent,  and  as  haughty 
as  the  boy-rider;  and  the  manly,  and  almost  herculean 
form  of  the  elder  Beaufort,  which,  from  the  buoyancy 
of  its  movements,  and  the  supple  grace  that  belongs  to 
the  perfect  mastership  of  any  athletic  art,  possessed  an 
elegance  and  dignity,  especially  on  horseback,  which 
rarely  accompanies  proportions  equally  sturdy  and  ro- 
bust. There  was,  indeed,  something  knightly  and 
chivalrous  in  the  bearing  of  the  elder  Beaufort, — in 
his  handsome,  aquiline  features,  the  erectness  of  his 
mien,  the  very  wave  of  his  hand,  as  he  spurred  from 
the  yard. 

"What  a  fine-looking  fellow  my  uncle  is!"  said 
Arthur,  with  involuntary  admiration. 

"  Ay,  an  excellent  life,  —  amazingly  strong!  "  returned 
the  pale  father,  with  a  slight  sigh. 

"  Philip,"  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  as  they  cantered  across 
the  paddock,  "  I  think  the  gate  is  too  much  for  you. 
I  will  just  take  Puppet  over,  and  then  we  will  open  it 
for  you." 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  47 

"Pooh,  my  dear  father!  you  don't  know  how  I'm 
improved!  "  And  slackening  the  rein,  and  touching 
the  side  of  his  horse,  the  young  rider  darted  forward 
and  cleared  the  gate,  which  was  of  no  common  height, 
witli  an  ease  that  extorted  a  loud  bravo  from  tlie  proud 
father. 

"  Now,  Puppet,"  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  spurring  his  own 
horse.  The  animal  cantered  towards  the  gate,  and  then 
suddenly  turned  round  with  an  impatient  and  angry 
snort.  "For  shame.  Puppet!  —  for  shame,  old  boy!" 
said  the  sportsman,  wheeling  him  again  to  the  barrier. 
The  horse  shook  his  head,  as  if  in  remonstrance;  but 
the  spur  vigorously  applied,  showed  him  that  his  master 
would  not  listen  to  his  mute  reasonings.  He  bounded 
forward,  made  at  the  gate,  struck  his  hoofs  against  the 
top-bar,  fell  forward,  and  threw  his  rider  head  fore- 
most on  the  road  beyond.  The  horse  rose  instantly, — 
not  so  the  master.  The  son  dismounted,  alarmed  and 
terrified.  His  father  was  speechless,  and  blood  gushed 
from  the  mouth  and  nostrils,  as  the  head  drooped  heavily 
on  the  boy's  breast.  The  bystanders  had  witnessed  the 
fall :  they  crowded  to  the  spot,  they  took  the  fallen  man 
from  the  weak  arms  of  the  son, — the  head  groom  ex- 
amined him  with  the  eye  of  one  who  had  picked  up 
science  irom  his  experience  in  such  casualties. 

"Speak,  brother  1  —  where  are  you  hurtl"  exclaimed 
Robert  Beaufort. 

"  He  will  never  speak  more!  "  said  the  groom,  burst- 
ing into  tears,     "  His  neck  is  broken !  " 

"  Send  for  the  nearest  surgeon,"  cried  Mr.  Robert. 
"  Good  God!  boy!  don't  mount  that  devilish  horse!  " 

But  Arthur  had  already  leaped  on  the  unhappy  steed, 
which  had  been  the  cause  of  this  appalling  affliction. 
"  Which  way  1  " 


48  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

"  Straight   on  to   ,  only  two   miles :    every   one 

knows  Mr.  Powis's  house.  God  bless  you!"  said  the 
groom. 

Artliur  vanished. 

"  Lift  him  carefully,  and  take  him  to  the  house,"  said 
Mr.  Eobert.     "  My  poor  brother!  my  dear  brother!  " 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  cry,  a  single,  shrill,  heart- 
breaking cry;  and  Philip  fell  senseless  to  the  ground. 

Xo  one  heeded  him  at  that  hour,  —  no  one  heeded 
the  fatherless  bastard.  "  Gently,  gently,"  said  Mr. 
Eobert,  as  he  followed  the  servants  and  their  load. 
And  he  then  muttered  to  himself,  and  his  sallow  cheek 
grew  bright,  and  his  breath  came  short:  "He  has  made 
no  will !  —  he  never  made  a  will !  " 


NIGHT   AND    MOILNING.  49 


CHAPTER  V. 

Constance.  —  0  boy,  then  where  art  thou  ? 
.  .  .  What  becomes  of  me  ? 

King  John. 

It  was  three  days  after  the  death  of  Philip  Beaufort; 
for  the  surgeon  arrived  only  to  confirm  the  judgment  of 
the  groom:  in  the  drawing-room  of  the  cottage,  the 
Avindovvs  closed,  lay  the  body,  in  its  coffin,  the  lid  not 
yet  nailed  down.  There,  prostrate  on  the  floor,  tearless, 
speechless,  was  the  miserable  Catherine;  poor  Sidney, 
too  yoimg  to  comprehend  all  his  loss,  sobbing  at  her 
side;  while  Philip  apart,  seated  beside  the  coffin,  gazed 
abstractedly  on  that  cold,  rigid  face  which  had  never 
known  one  frown  for  his  boyish  follies. 

In  another  room,  that  had  been  appropriated  to  the 
late  owner,  called  his  study,  sat  Robert  Beaufort. 
Everything  in  this  room  spoke  of  the  deceased.  Par- 
tially separated  from  the  rest  of  the  house,  it  communi- 
cated, by  a  winding  staircase,  with  a  chamber  above,  to 
which  Philip  had  been  wont  to  betake  himself  whenever 
he  returned  late,  and  over-exhilarated,  from  some  rural 
feast  crowning  a  hard  day's  hunt.  Above  a  quaint,  old- 
fashioned  bureau  of  Dutch  workmanship  (which  Philip 
had  picked  up  at  a  sale  in  the  earlier  years  of  his  mar- 
riage) was  a  portrait  of  Catherine  taken  in  the  bloom  of 
her  youth.  On  a  peg  on  the  door  that  led  to  the  stair- 
case, still  hung  his  rough  driving-coat.  The  window 
commanded  the  view  of  the  paddock,  in  which  the 
worn-out   hunter  or  the    unbroken  colt  grazed  at  wilL 

VOL.  I.  —  4 


50  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

Around  the  walls  of  the  "  study  "  (a  strange  mis- 
nomer I)  hung  prints  of  celebrated  fox-hunts  and  re- 
nowned steeple-chases:  guns,  fishing-rods,  and  foxes' 
brushes,  ranged  with  a  sportsman's  neatness,  supplied 
the  place  of  books.  On  the  mantelpiece  lay  a  cigar-case, 
a  well-worn  volume  on  the  Veterinary  Art,  and  the  last 
number  of  "The  Sporting  Magazine."  And  in  that 
room,  —  thus  witnessing  of  the  hardy,  masculine,  rural 
life  that  had  passed  away,  —  sallow,  stooping,  town-worn, 
sat,  I  say,  Eobert  Beaufort,  the  heir-at-law,  alone:  for 
the  very  day  of  the  death  he  had  remanded  his  son  home 
with  the  letter  that  announced  to  his  Avife  the  change  in 
their  fortunes,  and  directed  her  to  send  his  lawyer  post- 
haste to  the  house  of  death.  The  bureau  and  the 
drawers  and  the  boxes  which  contained  the  papers  of 
the  deceased ,  were  open ;  their  contents  had  been  ran- 
sacked; no  certificate  of  the  private  marriage,  no  hint  of 
such  an  event,  not  a  paper  found  to  signify  the  last 
wishes  of  the  rich  dead  man. 

He  had  died,  and  made  no  sign.  Mr.  Kobert  Beau- 
fort's countenance  was  still  and  composed. 

A  knock  at  the  door  was  heard ;  the  lawyer  entered. 

"Sir,  the  undertakers  are  here,  and  Mr.  Greaves  has 
ordered  the  bells  to  bo  rung:  at  three  o'clock  he  will 
read  the  service." 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you,  Blackwell,  for  taking  these 
melancholy  offices  on  yourself.  My  poor  brother!  —  it 
is  so  sudden!  But  the  funeral,  you  say,  ought  to  take 
place  to-day  ?  " 

"  The  weather  is  so  warm,"  said  the  lawyer,  wiping 
his  forehead.      As  he  spoke,  the  death-bell  was  heard. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  It  would  have  been  a  terrible  shock  to  Mrs.  Morton 
if   she    liad    been  his  wife,"  observed    Mr.   Blackwell; 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  51 

*'but  I  suppose  persons  of  that  kind  have  very  little 
feeling.  I  must  say  that  it  was  fortunate  for  the  family, 
that  the  event  happened  before  Mr.  Beaufort  was 
wheedled  into  so  improper  a  marriage." 

"It  was  fortunate,  Blackwell.  Have  you  ordered 
the  post-horses?  I  shall  start  immediately  after  the 
funeral." 

"  What  is  to  he  done  with  the  cottage,  sir?  " 

"  You  may  advertise  it  for  sale. " 

"  And  Mrs.  Morton  and  the  boys?  " 

"  Hum,  —  we  will  consider.  She  was  a  tradesman's 
daughter.  I  think  I  ought  to  provide  for  her  suitably, 
eh?" 

"  It  is  more  than  the  world  could  expect  from  you, 
sir;  it  is  very  different  from  a  wife." 

"Oh,  very!  very  much  so,  indeed!  Just  ring  for  a 
lighted  candle,  we  will  seal  up  these  boxes.  And  —  I 
think  I  could  take  a  sandwich.     Poor  Philip!  " 

The  funeral  was  over;  the  dead  shovelled  away. 
What  a  strange  thing  it  does  seem,  that  that  very  form 
which  we  prized  so  charily,  for  which  we  prayed  the 
winds  to  be  gentle,  which  we  lapped  from  the  cold  in 
our  arms,  from  whose  footstep  we  would  have  removed 
a  stone,  should  be  suddenly  thrust  out  of  sight, — an 
abomination  that  the  earth  must  not  look  upon,  a  des- 
picable loathsomeness,  to  be  concealed  and  to  be  for- 
gotten !  And  this  same  composition  of  bone  and  muscle 
that  was  yesterday  so  strong,  —  which  men  respected, 
and  women  loved,  and  children  clung  to,  —  to-day  so 
lamentably  powerless,  unable  to  defend  or  protect  those 
who  lay  nearest  to  its  heart;  its  riches  wrested  from  it, 
its  wishes  spat  upon,  its  influence  expiring  with  its  last 
sigh!  A  breath  from  its  lips  making  all  that  mighty 
difference  between  what  it  was  and  what  it  is! 


52  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

The  post-horses  were  at  the  door  as  the  funeral  pro- 
cession returned  to  the  house. 

Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  bowed  slightly  to  Mrs.  Morton, 
and  said,  with  his  pocket-handkerchief  still  before  his 
eyes,  — 

"  I  will  write  to  you  in  a  few  days,  ma'am;  you  will 
find  that  I  shall  not  forget  you.  The  cottage  will  be  sold ; 
but  we  sha'n't  hurry  you.  Good-by,  ma'am;  good-by, 
my  boys;  "  and  he  patted  his  nephews  on  the  head. 

Philip  winced  aside,  and  scowled  haughtily  at  his 
uncle,  who  muttered  to  himself,  "  That  boy  will  come 
to  no  good!"  Little  Sidney  put  his  hand  into  the 
rich  man's,  and  looked  up,  pleadingly,  into  his  face. 
"  Can't  you  say  something  pleasant  to  poor  mamma, 
Uncle  Eobertr' 

Mr.  Beaufort  hemmed  huskily,  and  entered  the 
britska,  —  it  had  been  his  brother's:  the  lawyer  fol- 
lowed, and  they  drove  away. 

A  week  after  the  funeral,  Philip  stole  from  the  house 
into  the  conservatory,  to  gather  some  fruit  for  his 
motlier;  she  had  scarcely  touched  food  since  Beaufort's 
death.  She  was  worn  to  a  shadow ;  her  hair  had  turned 
gray.  Kow  she  had  at  last  found  tears,  and  she  wept 
noiselessly  but  unceasingly. 

The  boy  had  plucked  some  grapes,  and  placed  them 
carefully  in  his  l)asket;  he  was  about  to  select  a  nec- 
tarine that  seemed  riper  than  the  rest,  when  his  hand 
was  roughly  seized,  and  the  gruff  voice  of  John  Green, 
the  gardener,  exclaimed, — 

"  What  are  you  about.  Master  Philip  1  —  you  must  not 
touch  them  ere  fruit!  " 

"  How  dare  you,  fellow!  "  cried  the  young  gentleman, 
in  a  tone  of  equal  astonishment  and  wrath. 

"None  of  your  airs,  Master  Philip!     What  I  mean 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  53 

is,  that  some  great  folks  are  coming  to  look  at  the  place 
to-morrow ;  and  I  won't  have  my  show  of  fruit  spoiled 
by  being  pawed  about  by  the  like  of  you ;  so,  that 's 
plain,  Master  Philip!  " 

The  boy  grew  very  pale,  but  remained  silent.  The 
gardener,  delighted  to  retaliate  the  insolence  he  had 
received,  continued, — 

"You  need  not  go  for  to  look  so  spiteful,  master; 
you  are  not  the  great  man  you  thought  you  were ;  you 
are  nobody  now,  and  so  you  will  find  ere  long.  So, 
march  out,  if  you  please;  I  wants  to  lock  up  the  glass." 

As  he  spoke,  he  took  the  lad  roughly  by  the  arm;  but 
Philip,  the  most  irascible  of  mortals,  was  strong  for  his 
years,  and  fearless  as  a  young  lion.  He  caught  up  a 
watering-pot,  which  the  gardener  had  deposited  while 
he  expostulated  with  his  late  tyrant,  and  struck  the  man 
across  the  face  with  it  so  violently  and  so  suddenly,  that 
he  fell  back  over  the  beds,  and  the  glass  crackled  and 
shivered  under  him.  Philip  did  not  wait  for  the  foe  to 
recover  his  equilibrium;  but,  taking  up  his  grapes,  and 
possessing  himself  quietly  of  the  disputed  nectarine, 
quitted  the  spot;  and  the  gardener  did  not  think  it  pru- 
dent to  pursue  him.  To  boys,  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances, —  boys  who  have  buffeted  their  way  through  a 
scolding  nursery,  a  wrangling  family,  or  a  public  school, 
—  there  would  have  been  nothing  in  this  squabble  to 
dwell  on  the  memory  or  vibrate  on  the  nerves,  after  the 
first  burst  of  passion ;  but  to  Philip  Beaufort  it  was  an 
era  in  life :  it  was  the  first  insult  he  had  ever  received ; 
it  was  his  initiation  into  that  changed,  rough,  and 
terrible  career,  to  which  the  spoiled  darling  of  vanity 
and  love  was  henceforth  condemned.  His  pride  and 
liis  self-esteem  had  incurred  a  fearful  shock.  He  en- 
tered the  house,  and  a  sickness  came  over  him;  his  limbs 


54  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

trembled;  he  sat  down  in  the  hall,  and,  placing  the 
fruit  beside  him,  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and 
wept.  Those  were  not  the  tears  of  a  boy,  drawn  from 
a  shallow  source ;  they  were  the  burning,  agonizing,  re- 
luctant tears  that  men  shed,  wrung  from  the  heart  as 
if  it  were  its  blood.  He  had  never  been  sent  to  school, 
lest  he  should  meet  with  mortification.  He  had  had 
various  tutors,  trained  to  show,  rather  than  to  exact 
respect;  one  succeeding  another  at  his  own  whim  and 
caprice.  His  natural  quickness,  and  a  very  strong,  hard, 
inquisitive  turn  of  mind,  had  enabled  him,  however,  to 
pick  up  more  knowledge,  though  of  a  desultory  and  mis- 
cellaneous nature,  than  boys  of  his  age  generally  pos- 
sess; and  his  roving,  independent,  out-of-door  existence 
had  served  to  ripen  his  understanding.  He  had  cer- 
tainly, in  spite  of  every  precaution,  arrived  at  some, 
though  not  very  distinct,  notion  of  his  peculiar  position; 
but  none  of  its  inconveniences  had  visited  him  till  that 
day.  He  began  now  to  turn  his  eyes  to  the  future; 
and  vague  and  dark  forebodings  —  a  consciousness  of  the 
shelter,  the  protector,  the  station,  he  had  lost  in  his 
father's  death  —  crept  coldly  over  him.  While  thus 
musing,  a  ring  was  heard  at  the  bell;  he  lifted  his 
head:  it  was  the  postman  with  a  letter.  Philip  hastily 
rose,  and,  averting  his  face,  on  which  the  tears  were  not 
dried,  took  the  letter;  and  then,  snatching  up  his  little 
basket  of  fruit,  repaired  to  his  mother's  room. 

The  shutters  were  half  closed  on  the  bright  day,  — 
oh,  what  a  mockery  is  there  in  the  smile  of  the  happy 
sun  when  it  shines  on  the  wretched!  Mrs.  Morton  sat, 
or  rather  crouched,  in  a  distant  corner,  her  streaming 
eyes  fixed  on  vacancy,  listless,  drooping,  a  very  image 
of  desolate  woe;  and  Sidney  was  weaving  flower-chains 
at  her  feet. 


NIGHT   AND   MOUNING.  55 

"  Mamma!  —  mother!  "  whispered  Philip  as  he  threw 
his  arms  round  her  neck;  "look  up!  look  up!  —  my 
heart  hreaks  to  see  you.  Do  taste  this  fruit:  you  will 
die,  too,  if  you  go  on  thus;  and  what  will  become  of  us, 
—  of  Sidney  ?  " 

Mrs.  ^lorton  did  look  up  vaguely  into  his  fac3,  and 
strove  to  smile. 

"  See,  too,  I  have  brought  you  a  letter;  perhaps  good 
news :  shall  I  break  the  seal  1  " 

Mrs.  JNIorton  shook  her  head  gently,  and  took  the 
letter,  — alas!  how  different  from  that  one  which  Sidney 
had  placed  in  her  hands  not  two  short  weeks  since:  it 
was  Mr.  Kobert  Beaufort's  handwriting.  She  shuddered 
and  laid  it  down.  And  then  there  suddenly,  and  for 
the  first  time,  flashed  across  her  the  sense  of  her  strange 
position,  —  the  dread  of  the  future.  What  were  her 
sons  to  be  henceforth  ?  What  herself  ?  Whatever  the 
sanctity  of  her  marriage,  the  law  might  fail  her.  At 
the  disposition  of  Mr.  Eobert  Beaufort  the  fate  of  three 
lives  might  depend.  She  gasped  for  breath,  again  took 
up  the  letter,  and  hurried  over  the  contents:  they  ran 
thus :  — 

Dear  Madam,  —  Knowing  that  you  must  naturally  be 
anxious  as  to  the  future  prospects  of  your  children  and  your- 
self, left  by  my  poor  brother  destitute  of  all  provision,  I  take 
the  earliest  opportunity  which  it  seems  to  me  that  propriet}'' 
and  decorum  allow,  to  apprise  you  of  my  intentions.  I  need 
not  say  that,  properly  speaking,  you  can  have  no  kind  of  claim 
upon  the  relations  of  my  late  brother;  nor  will  I  hurt  j'our 
feelings  by  those  moral  reflections  which  at  this  season  of 
sorrow  cannot,  I  hope,  fail  involuntarily  to  force  themselves 
upon  you.  Without  more  than  this  mere  allusion  to  your 
T)eculiar  connection  with  my  brother,  I  may,  however,  be  per- 
mitted to  add,  that  that  connection  tended  very  materially  to 
separate  him  from  the  legitiiuate  branches  of  his  family ;  and 


66  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

in  consiiltinjT  with  them  as  to  a  provision  for  you  and  your 
children,  I  find  that,  besides  scruples  that  are  to  be  respected, 
some  natural  degree  of  soreness  exists  upon  their  minds.  Out 
of  regard,  however,  to  my  poor  brother  (though  I  saw  very 
little  of  him  of  late  years),  I  am  willing  to  waive  those  feel- 
ings which,  as  a  father  and  a  husband,  you  may  conceive  that 
I  share  with  the  rest  of  my  family.  You  will  probably  now 
decide  on  living  with  some  of  your  own  relations  ;  and  that 
you  may  not  be  entirely  a  burden  to  them,  I  beg  to  say  that  I 
shall  allow  you  a  hundred  a  year,  paid,  if  you  prefer  it,  quar- 
terly. You  may  also  select  such  articles  of  linen  and  plate  as 
you  require  for  your  own  use.  With  regard  to  your  sons,  I 
have  no  objection  to  place  them  at  a  grammar-school,  and,  at 
a  proper  age,  to  apprentice  them  to  any  trade  suitable  to  their 
future  station,  in  the  choice  of  which  your  own  family  can 
give  you  the  best  advice.  If  they  conduct  themselves  properly, 
they  may  always  depend  on  my  protection.  I  do  not  wish  to 
hurry  your  movements  ;  but  it  will  probably  be  painful  to  you 
to  remain  longer  than  you  can  help  in  a  place  crowded  with 
unpleasant  recollections;  and  as  the  cottage  is  to  be  sold, — 
indeed,  my  brother-in-law,  Lord  LilVjurne,  thinks  it  would 
Buit  him,  —  you  will  be  liable  to  the  interruption  of  strangers 
to  see  it  ;  and  your  prolonged  residence  at  Fernside,  you  must 
be  sensible,  is  rather  an  obstacle  to  the  sale.  I  beg  to  enclose 
you  a  draft  for  .£100,  to  pay  any  present  expenses  ;  and  to  re- 
quest, when  you  are  settled,  to  know  where  the  first  quarter 
shall  be  paid. 

I  shall  write  to  Mr.  Jackson  (who,  I  think,  is  the  bailiff) 
to  detail  my  instructions  as  to  selling  the  crops,  etc.,  and  dis- 
charging the  servants,  so  that  you  may  have  no  further  trouble. 
I  am,  madam,  your  obedient  servant, 

Robert  Beaufort. 

Berkeley  Square,  September  12,  18 — . 

The  letter  fell  from  Catherine's  hands.  Her  grief 
was  changed  to  indignation  and  scorn, 

"The  insolent!"  she  exclaimed,  Avith  flashing  eyes. 
"This  to  me!  —  to  me!  —  the  wife,  the  lawful  wife  of 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  57 

his  brother!  the  wedded  mother  of  his  brother's  chil- 
dren!" 

"Say  that  again,  mother!  again, — again!"  cried 
Philip,  in  a  loud  voice.     "  His  wife!  —  wedded!  " 

"  I  swear  it,"  said  Catherine,  solemnly.  "  I  kept  the 
secret  for  your  father's  sake.  Now,  for  yours,  the  truth 
must  be  proclaimed." 

"Thank  God!  thank  God!"  murmured  Philip,  in  a 
quivering  voice,  throwing  his  arms  round  his  brother, 
"  we  have  no  brand  on  our  names,  Sidney." 

At  those  accents,  so  full  of  suppressed  joy  and  pride, 
the  mother  felt  at  once  all  that  her  son  had  suspected  and 
concealed.  She  felt  that  beneath  his  haughty  and  way- 
ward character  there  had  lurked  delicate  and  generous 
forbearance  for  her;  that  from  his  equivocal  position 
his  very  faults  might  have  arisen ;  and  a  pang  of  remorse 
for  her  long  sacrifice  of  the  children  to  the  father  shot 
through  her  heart.  It  was  followed  by  a  fear,  an  appall- 
ing fear,  more  painful  than  the  remorse.  The  proofs 
that  were  to  clear  herself  and  them!  The  words  of  her 
husband,  that  last  awful  morning,  rang  in  her  ear.  The 
minister  dead;  the  witness  absent;  the  register  lost! 
But  the  copy  of  that  register! — the  copy!  might  not 
that  suffice?  She  groaned,  and  closed  her  eyes  as  if  to 
shut  out  the  future ;  then  starting  up,  she  hurried  from 
the  room,  and  went  straight  to  Beaufort's  study.  As 
she  laid  her  hand  on  the  latch  of  the  door,  she  trembled 
and  drew  back.  But  care  for  the  living  was  stronger  at 
that  moment  than  even  anguish  for  the  dead:  she  en- 
tered the  apartment;  she  passed  with  a  firm  step  to  the 
bureau.  It  was  locked;  Robert  Beaufort's  seal  upon 
the  lock:  on  every  cupboard,  every  box,  every  drawer, 
the  same  seal  that  spoke  of  rights  more  valued  than  her 
own.     But  Catherine  was  not  daunted :  she  turned  and 


58  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

saw  Philip  by  her  side;  she  pointed  to  the  bureau  la 
silence;  the  boy  understood  the  appeal.  He  left  the 
room,  and  returned  in  a  few  moments  with  a  chisel. 
The  lock  was  broken:  tremblingly  and  eagerly  Catherine 
ransacked  the  contents,  opened  paper  after  paper,  letter 
after  letter,  in  vain,  — no  certificate,  no  will,  no  memo- 
rial. Could  the  brother  have  abstracted  the  fatal  proof? 
A  word  sufficed  to  explain  to  Philip  what  she  sought 
for;  and  his  search  was  more  minute  than  hers.  Every 
possible  receptacle  for  papers  in  that  room,  in  the  whole 
house,  was  explored,  and  still  the  search  was  fruitless. 

Three  hours  afterwards  they  were  in  the  same  room  in 
which  Philip  had  brought  Robert  Beaufort's  letter  to 
his  mother.  Catherine  was  seated,  tearless,  but  deadly 
pale  with  heart-sickness  and  dismay. 

"Mother,"  said  Philip,  "  may  I  now  read  the  letter?" 

"  Yes,  boy;  and  decide  for  us  all."  She  paused,  and 
examined  his  face  as  he  read.  He  felt  her  eye  was  upon 
him,  and  restrained  his  emotions  as  he  proceeded. 
When  he  had  done  he  lifted  his  dark  gaze  upon  Cath- 
erine's watchful  countenance. 

"  IMother,  whether  or  not  we  obtain  our  rights,  you 
will  still  refuse  this  man's  charity?  I  am  young,  — a 
boy ;  but  I  am  strong  and  active.  I  will  work  for  you 
day  and  night.  I  have  it  in  me,  —  I  feel  it;  anything 
rather  than  eating  his  bread." 

"Philip!  Philip!  you  are  indeed  my  son,  your 
father's  son!  And  have  you  no  reproach  for  your 
mother,  who  so  Aveakly,  so  criminally,  concealed  your 
birthright,  till,  alas!  discovery  may  be  too  late?  Oh! 
reproach  me,  reproach  me!  it  will  be  kindness.  No! 
do  not  kiss  me!  I  cannot  bear  it.  Boy!  boy!  if,  as 
my  heart  tells  me,  we  fail  in  proof,  do  you  understand 
what,  in  the  world's  eye,  I  am;  what  you  are?  " 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  59 

"I  do!"  said  Pliilip,  firmly;  and  he  fell  on  his 
knees  at  her  feet.  "  Whatever  others  call  you,  you 
are  a  mother,  and  I  your  son.  You  are,  in  the  judg- 
ment of  Heaven,  my  father's  wife,  and  I  his  heir." 

Catlierine  bowed  her  head,  and,  with  a  gush  of  tears, 
fell  into  his  arms.  Sidney  crept  up  to  her,  and  forced 
his  lips  to  her  cold  cheek.  "]\[amma!  what  vexes  you? 
Mamma,  mamma!  " 

"Oh,  Sidney!  Sidney!  How  like  his  father!  Look 
at  him,  Philip!  Shall  we  do  right  to  refuse  him  even 
this  pittance  ?     Must  he  be  a  beggar  too  ?  " 

"Never  a  beggar,"  said  Philip,  with  a  pride  that 
showed  what  hard  lessons  he  had  yet  to  learn.  "The 
lawful  sons  of  a  Beaufort  were  not  born  to  beg  their 
bread!" 


60  NIGHT   AND   MOKNING. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  storm  above,  and  frozen  world  below. 

The  olive  bough 
Faded  and  cast  upon  the  common  wind, 
And  eartli  a  doveless  ark. 

Laman  Blanchard. 

Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  was  generally  considered  by 
the  world  a  very  worthy  man.  He  had  never  com- 
mitted any  excess,  never  gambled  nor  incurred  debt, 
nor  fallen  into  the  warm  errors  most  common  with  his 
sex.  He  was  a  good  husband,  a  careful  father,  an 
agreeable  neighbor,  rather  charitable  than  otherwise, 
to  the  poor.  He  was  honest  and  methodical  in  his 
dealings,  and  had  been  known  to  behave  handsomely  in 
different  relations  of  life.  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort,  in- 
deed, always  meant  to  do  what  was  right,  —  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world/  He  had  no  other  rule  of  action  but  that 
which  the  world  supplied:  his  religion  was  decorum; 
his  sense  of  honor  was  regard  to  opinion.  His  heart 
was  a  dial  to  which  the  world  was  the  sun:  when  the 
great  eye  of  the  public  fell  on  it,  it  answered  every  pur- 
pose that  a  heart  could  answer;  but  when  that  eye  was 
invisible,  the  dial  was  mute,  —  a  piece  of  brass,  and 
nothing  more. 

It  is  just  to  Robert  Beaufort  to  assure  the  reader 
that  he  wholly  disbelieved  his  brother's  story  of  a 
private  marriage.  He  considered  that  tale,  when  heard 
for  the  first  time,  as  the  mere  invention  (and  a  shallow 
one)  of  a  man  wishing  to  make  the  imprudent  step  he 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  61 

was  about  to  take  as  respectable  as  lie  could.  The 
careless  tone  of  his  brother  when  speaking  upon  the 
subject,  his  confession  that  of  such  a  marriage  there 
were  no  distinct  proofs,  except  a  copy  of  a  register 
(which  copy  Kobert  had  not  found),  —  made  his  incre- 
dulity natural.  He  therefore  deemed  himself  \mder  no 
obligation  of  delicacy  or  respect  to  a  woman  through 
whose  means  he  had  very  nearly  lost  a  noble  succession, 
—  a  woman  who  had  not  even  borne  his  brother's  name, 
a  woman  whom  nobody  knew.  Had  Mrs.  Morton  Ijeen 
Mrs.  Beaufort,  and  the  natural  sons  legitimate  children, 
Robert  Beaufort,  supposing  their  situation  of  relative 
power  and  dependence  to  have  been  the  same,  would 
have  behaved  with  careful  and  scrupulous  generosity. 
The  world  would  have  said,  "  Nothing  can  be  hand- 
somer than  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort's  conduct!"  Nay,  if 
Mrs.  Morton  had  been  some  divorced  wife  of  birth  and 
connections,  he  would  have  made  very  different  disposi- 
tions in  her  favor:  he  would  not  have  allowed  the  con- 
nections to  call  him  shabby.  But  here  he  felt  that,  all 
circumstances  considered,  the  world,  if  it  spoke  at  all 
(which  it  would  scarcely  think  it  worth  while  to  do), 
would  be  on  his  side.  An  artful  woman,  —  low-born 
and,  of  course,  low-bred,  — who  wanted  to  inveigle  her 
rich  and  careless  paramour  into  marriage;  what  could 
be  expected  from  the  man  she  had  sought  to  injure, — 
the  rightful  heir"?  Was  it  not  very  good  in  him  to  do 
anything  for  her,  and,  if  he  provided  for  the  children 
suitably  to  the  original  station  of  the  mother,  did  he 
not  go  to  the  very  utmost  of  reasonable  expectation '? 
He  certainly  thought  in  his  conscience,  such  as  it  was, 
that  he  had  acted  well, — not  extravagantly,  not  fool- 
ishly, but  iveJl.  He  was  sure  the  world  would  say  so 
if  it  knew  all ;  he  was  not  bound  to  do  anything.     He 


62  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

was  not,  therefore,  prepared  for  Catherine's  short, 
haughty,  but  temperate  reply  to  his  letter,  —  a  reply 
which  conveyed  a  decided  refusal  of  his  offers;  asserted 
positively  her  own  marriage,  and  the  claims  of  her 
children;  intimated  legal  proceedings;  and  was  signed 
in  the  name  of  Catherine  Beaufort,.  Mr.  Beaufort  put 
the  letter  in  his  bureau,  labelled,  "Impertinent  answer 
from  Mrs.  Morton,  Sept.  14,"  and  was  quite  contented 
to  forget  the  existence  of  the  writer,  until  his  laAvyer, 
Mr.  Blackwell,  informed  him  that  a  suit  had  been 
instituted  by  Catherine.  Mr.  Eobert  turned  pale,  but 
Blackwell  composed  him. 

"Pooh,  sir!  you  have  notliing  to  fear.  It  is  but  an 
attempt  to  extort  money :  the  attorney  is  a  low  practi- 
tioner, accustomed  to  get  up  bad  cases;  they  can  make 
nothing  of  it. " 

This  was  true:  whatever  the  rights  of  the  case,  poor 
Catherine  had  no  proofs,  no  evidence,  Avhich  could 
justify  a  respectable  lawyer  to  advise  her  proceeding  to 
a  suit.  She  named  two  witnesses  of  her  marriage,  — 
one  dead,  the  other  could  not  be  heard  of.  She  selected 
for  the  alleged  place  in  which  the  ceremony  was  per- 
formed a  very  remote  village,  in  which  it  appeared  that 
the  register  had  been  destroyed.  No  attested  copy 
thereof  was  to  be  found,  and  Catherine  was  stunned  on 
hearing  that,  even  if  found,  it  was  doubtful  whether  it 
could  be  received  as  evidence,  unless  to  corroborate 
actual  personal  testimony.  It  so  happened  that  when 
Philip,  many  years  ago,  had  received  a  copy,  he  had  not 
sliown  it  to  Catherine,  nor  mentioned  Mr.  Jones's 
name  as  the  copyist.  In  fact,  then  only  three  years 
married  to  Catherine,  his  worldly  caution  had  not  yet 
been  conquered  by  confident  experience  of  her  gener- 
osity.    As  for  the  mere  moral  evidence  dependent  on  the 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  63 

publication  of  her  banns  in  London,  that  amounted  to 

no    proof  whatever;  nor,  on  inquiry  at  A ,  did  the 

Welsh  villagers  remember  anything  further  than  that, 
some  fifteen  years  ago,  a  handsome  gentleman  had 
visited  Mr.  Price,  and  one  or  two  rather  thought  that 
Mr.  Price  had  married  him  to  a  lady  from  London; 
evidence  quite  inadmissible  against  the  deadly,  damning 
fact,  that,  for  fifteen  years,  Catherine  had  openly  borne 
another  name,  and  lived  with  Mr.  Beaufort,  ostensibly 
as  liis  mistress.  Her  generosity  in  this  destroyed  her 
case.  Nevertheless,  she  found  a  low  practitioner,  who 
took  her  money  and  neglected  her  cause;  so  her  suit 
was  heard  and  dismissed  with  contempt.  Henceforth 
then,  indeed,  in  the  eyes  of  the  law  and  the  public, 
Catherine  was  an  impudent  adventurer,  and  her  sons 
were  nameless  outcasts. 

And  now,  relieved  from  all  fear,  Mr.  Robert  Beau- 
fort entered  upon  the  full  enjoyment  of  his  splendid 
fortune.  The  house  in  Berkeley  Square  was  furnished 
anew.  Great  dinners  and  gay  routs  were  given  in  the 
ensuing  spring.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Beaufort  became  persons 
of  considerable  importance.  The  ricli  man  had,  even 
when  poor,  been  ambitious;  his  ambition  now  centred 
in  his  only  son.  Arthur  had  always  been  considered  a 
boy  of  talents  and  promise,  —to  what  might  he  not  now 
aspire?  The  term  of  his  probation  with  the  tutor  was 
abridged,  and  Arthur  Beaufort  was  sent  at  once  to 
Oxford. 

Before  he  went  to  the  university,  during  a  short  pre- 
paratory visit  to  his  father,  Arthur  spoke  to  him  of  the 
Mortons. 

"What  has  become  of  them,  sir;  and  what  have  you 
done  for  them  ?  " 

"Done  for  them!"  said  Mr.    Beaufort,  opening   his 


64  NIGHT   AND    HORNING. 

eyes.  "What  should  I  do  for  persons  who  have  just 
been  harassing  me  with  the  most  unprincipled  litiga- 
tion 1  jVIy  conduct  to  them  has  been  too  generous ;  that 
is,  all  things  considered.  But  when  you  are  my  age 
you  will  find  there  is  very  little  gratitude  in  the  world, 
Arthur. " 

"  Still,  sir,"  said  Arthur,  with  the  good-nature  that 
belonged  to  him:  "  still,  my  uncle  was  greatly  attached 
to  them ;  and  the  boys,  at  least,  are  guiltless. " 

"Well,  well!"  replied  Mr.  Beaufort,  a  little  impa- 
tiently ;  "  I  believe  they  want  for  nothing :  I  fancy  they 
are  with  the  mother's  relations.  Whenever  they  address 
me  in  a  proper  manner,  they  shall  not  find  me  revenge- 
ful or  hard-hearted;  but,  since  we  are  on  this  topic," 
continued  the  father,  smoothing  his  shirt-frill  with  a 
care  that  showed  his  decorum  even  in  trifles,  "  I  hope 
you  see  the  results  of  that  kind  of  connection,  and  that 
you  will  take  Avarning  by  your  poor  uncle's  example. 
And  now  let  us  change  the  subject;  it  is  not  a  very 
pleasant  one,  and,  at  j'our  age,  the  less  your  thoughts 
turn  on  such  matters  the  better." 

Arthur  Beaufort,  with  the  careless  generosity  of 
youth,  that  gauges  other  men's  conduct  by  its  own 
sentiments,  believed  that  his  father,  who  had  never 
been  niggardly  to  himself,  had  really  acted  as  his  words 
implied,  and,  engrossed  by  the  pursuits  of  the  new 
and  brilliant  career  opened,  whether  to  his  pleasures  or 
his  studies,  suffered  the  objects  of  his  inquiries  to  pass 
from  his  thoughts. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Morton,  for  by  that  name  we  must 
still  call  her,  and  her  children,  were  settled  in  a  small 
lodging  in  a  humble  suburb,  situated  on  the  highroad 
between  Fernside  and  the  metropolis.  She  saved  from 
her  hopeless  lawsuit,  after  the  sale  of  her  jewels  and 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  65 

ornaments,  a  sufficient  sum  to  enable  her,  with  economy, 
to  live  respectably  for  a  year  or  two  at  least,  during 
which  time  she  might  arrange  her  plans  for  the  future. 
She  reckoned,  as  a  sure  resource,  upon  the  assistance  of 
her  relations;  but  it  was  one  to  which  she  applied  with 
natural  shame  and  reluctance.  She  had  kept  up  a  cor- 
respondence with  her  father  during  his  life.  To  him 
she  never  revealed  the  secret  of  her  marriage,  though 
she  did  not  write  like  a  person  conscious  of  error.  Per- 
haps, as  she  always  said  to  her  son,  she  had  made 
to  her  husband  a  solemn  promise  never  to  divulge  or 
even  hint  that  secret  until  he  himself  should  authorize 
its  disclosure.  For  neither  he  nor  Catherine  ever  con- 
templated separation  or  death.  Alas!  how  all  of  us, 
when  happy,  sleep  secure  in  the  dark  shadows,  which 
ought  to  warn  us  of  the  sorrows  that  are  to  come !  Still 
Catherine's  father,  a  man  of  coarse  mind  and  not  rigid 
principles,  did  not  take  much  to  heart  that  connection 
which  he  assumed  to  be  illicit.  She  was  provided  for, 
that  was  some  comfort:  doubtless  Mr.  Beaufort  would 
act  like  a  gentleman,  perhaps  at  last  make  her  an  honest 
woman  and  a  lady.  Meanwhile  she  had  a  fine  house 
and  a  fine  carriage  and  fine  servants,  and,  so  far  from 
applying  to  him  for  money,  was  constantly  sending 
him  little  presents.  But  Catherine  only  saw,  in  his 
permission  of  her  correspondence,  kind,  forgiving,  and 
trustful  affection,  and  she  loved  him  tenderly;  when  he 
died,  the  link  that  bound  her  to  her  family  was  broken. 
Her  brother  succeeded  to  the  trade ,  —  a  man  of  probity 
and  honor,  but  somewhat  hard  and  unamiable.  In  the 
only  letter  she  had  received  from  him, — the  one  an- 
nouncing her  father's  death,  — he  told  her  plainly,  and 
very  properly,  that  he  could  not  countenance  the  life 
she   led;    that   he  had   children   growing  up;  that   all 

VOL.  I.  — 5 


66  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

intercourse  between  them  was  at  an  end,  unless  she  left 
Mr.  Beaufort,  when,  if  she  sincerely  repented,  he  would 
still  prove  her  affectionate  brother. 

Though  Catherine  had  at  the  time  resented  this  letter 
as  unfeeling,  now,  humbled  and  sorrow-stricken,  she 
recognized  the  propriety  of  principle  from  which  it 
emanated.  Her  brother  was  well  off  for  his  station: 
she  would  explain  to  him  her  real  situation,  —  he  would 
believe  her  story.  She  would  write  to  him,  and  beg 
him,  at  least,  to  give  aid  to  her  poor  children. 

But  this  step  she  did  not  take  till  a  considerable 
portion  of  her  pittance  was  consumed,  —  till  nearly  three 
parts  of  a  year  since  Beaufort's  death  had  expired, — 
and  till  sundry  warnings,  not  to  he  lightly  heeded,  had 
made  her  forelwde  the  probability  of  an  early  death  for 
herself.  From  the  age  of  sixteen,  when  she  had  been 
placed  by  Mr.  Beaufort  at  the  head  of  his  household, 
she  had  been  cradled,  not  in  extravagance,  but  in  an 
easy  luxury,  which  had  not  brought  with  it  habits  of 
economy  and  thrift.  She  could  grudge  anything  to  her- 
self, but  to  her  children,  —  his  children,  whose  every 
whim  had  been  anticipated.  — she  had  not  the  heart  to 
be  saving.  She  could  have  starved  in  a  garret  had  she 
been  alone ;  but  she  could  not  see  them  wanting  a  com- 
fort while  she  possessed  a  guinea.  Philip,  to  do  him 
justice,  evinced  a  consideration  not  to  have  been  ex- 
pected from  his  early  and  arrogant  recklessness.  But 
Sidney,  —  who  could  expect  consideration  from  such  a 
child?  What  could  he  know  of  the  change  of  circum- 
stances,—  of  the  value  of  money?  Did  he  seem  de- 
jected, Catherine  would  steal  out  and  spend  a  week's 
income  on  the  lapful  of  toys  which  she  brought  home. 
Did  he  seem  a  shade  more  pale;  did  he  complain  of 
the  slightest  ailment,  —  a  doctor  must  be  sent  for.    Alas  I 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  67 

her  own  ailments,  neglected  and  unheeded,  were  grow- 
ing beyond  the  reach  of  medicine.  Anxious,  fearful, 
gnawed  by  regret  for  the  past,  the  thought  of  famine  in 
the  future,  —  she  daily  fretted  and  wore  herself  away. 
She  had  cultivated  her  mind  during  her  secluded  resi- 
dence with  Mr.  Beaufort,  but  she  had  learned  none  of 
the  arts  by  which  decayed  gentlewomen  keep  the  wolf 
from  the  door,  —  no  little  holiday  accomplishments, 
which  in  the  day  of  need  turn  to  useful  trade ;  no  water- 
color  drawings,  no  paintings  on  velvet,  no  fabrication  of 
pretty  gewgaws,  no  embroidery  and  fine  needlework. 
She  was  helpless,  —  utterly  helpless;  if  she  had  re- 
signed herself  to  the  thought  of  service,  she  would  not 
have  had  the  physical  strength  for  a  place  of  drudgery, 
and  where  could  she  have  found  the  testimonials  neces- 
sary for  a  place  of  trust?  A  great  change,  at  this  time, 
was  apparent  in  Philip.  Had  he  fallen,  then,  into  kind 
hands,  and  under  guiding  eyes,  his  passions  and  energies 
might  have  ripened  into  rare  qualities  and  great  virtues. 
But  perhaps,  as  Goethe  has  somewhere  said,  "Experi- 
ence, after  all,  is  the  best  teacher."  He  kept  a  con- 
stant guard  on  his  vehement  temper,  —  his  wayward 
Avill ;  he  would  not  have  vexed  his  mother  for  the 
world.  But,  strange  to  say  (it  was  a  great  mystery  in 
the  woman's  heart),  in  proportion  as  he  became  more 
amiable,  it  seemed  that  his  mother  loved  him  less. 
Perhaps  she  did  not,  in  that  change,  recognize  so  closely 
the  darling  of  the  old  time;  perhaps  tlie  very  weak- 
nesses and  importunities  of  Sidney,  the  hourly  sacri- 
fices the  child  entailed  upon  her,  endeared  the  younger 
son  more  to  her,  from  that  natural  sense  of  dependence 
and  protection  which  forms  the  great  bond  between 
mother  and  child;  perhaps,  too,  as  Philip  had  been  one 
to  inspire  as  much  pride  as  affection,  so  the  pride  faded 


68  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

away  with  the  expectations  that  had  fed  it,  and  carried 
off  in  its  decay  some  of  the  affection  that  was  inter- 
twined with  it.  However  this  be,  Philip  had  formerly 
appeared  the  more  spoiled  and  favored  of  the  two;  and 
now  Sidney  seemed  all  in  all.  Thus,  beneath  the 
younger  son's  caressing  gentleness  there  grew  up  a  cer- 
tain regard  for  self;  it  Avas  latent,  it  took  amiable 
colors,  it  had  even  a  certain  charm  and  grace  in  so 
sweet  a  child;  but  selfishness  it  was  not  the  less.  In 
this  he  differed  from  his  brother.  Philip  was  self- 
willed  :  Sidney  self-loving.  A  certain  timidity  of  char- 
acter, endearing  perhaps  to  the  anxious  heart  of  a  mother, 
made  this  fault  in  the  younger  boy  more  likely  to  take 
root.  For,  in  bold  natures,  there  is  a  lavish  and  un- 
calculating  recklessness  Avhich  scorns  self  unconsciously: 
and  though  there  is  a  fear  which  arises  from  a  loving 
heart,  and  is  but  sympathy  for  others,  the  fear  which 
belongs  to  a  timid  character  is  but  egotism,  — but  when 
physical,  the  regard  for  one's  own  person;  when  moral, 
the  anxiety  for  one's  own  interests. 

It   was    in  a  small    room  in  a  lodging-house  in    the 

suburb  of  H that  Mrs.  Morton  was  seated  by  the 

window,  nervously  awaiting  the  knock  of  the  postman 
who  was  expected  to  bring  her  brother's  reply  to  her 
letter.  It  was,  therefore,  between  ten  and  eleven 
o'clock,  —  a  morning  in  the  merry  month  of  June.  It 
was  hot  and  sultry,  which  is  rare  in  an  English  June. 
A  fly-trap,  red,  white,  and  yellow,  suspended  from  the 
ceiling,  swarmed  with  flies;  flies  were  on  the  ceiling, 
flies  buzzed  at  the  windows;  the  sofa  and  chairs  of 
horse-hair  seemed  stuffed  with  flies.  There  was  an  air 
of  heated  discomfort  in  the  thick,  solid  moreen  curtains, 
in  the  gaudy  paper,  in  the  bright-staring  carpet,  in  the 
very  looking-glass  over  the  cliimney-piece,  where  a  strip 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  69 

of  mirror  lay  imprisoned  in  an  embrace  of  frame  covered 
with  yellow  muslin.  We  may  talk  of  the  dreariness  of 
winter;  and  winter,  no  doubt,  is  desolate:  but  what  in 
the  world  is  more  dreary  to  eyes  inured  to  the  verdure 
and  bloom  of  nature ,  — 

"  The  pomp  of  groves  and  garniture  of  fields,  "  — 

than  a  close  room  in  a  suburban  lodging-house ;  the  sun 
piercing  every  corner;  nothing  fresh,  nothing  cool, 
nothing  fragrant  to  be  seen,  felt,  or  inhaled;  all  dust, 
glare,  noise,  with  a  chandler's  shop,  perhaps,  next  door? 
Sidney,  armed  with  a  pair  of  scissors,  was  cutting  the 
pictures  out  of  a  story-book  which  his  mother  had 
bought  him  the  day  before.  Philip,  who,  of  late,  had 
taken  much  to  rambling  about  the  streets,  —  it  may  be 
in  hopes  of  meeting  one  of  those  benevolent,  eccentric, 
elderly  gentlemen  he  had  read  of  in  old  novels,  who 
suddenly  come  to  the  relief  of  distressed  virtue;  or,  more 
probably,  from  the  restlessness  that  belonged  to  his 
adventurous  temperament,  —  Philip  had  left  the  house 
since  breakfast. 

"  Oh !  how  hot  this  nasty  room  is !  "  exclaimed  Sidney, 
abruptly,  looking  up  from  his  employment.  "  Sha'n't 
we  ever  go  into  the  covuitry  again,  mamma?  " 

"  Kot  at  present,  my  love. " 

"I  wish  I  could  have  my  pony:  why  can't  I  have 
my  pony,  mamma?  " 

"Because  —  because  —  the  pony  is  sold,  Sidney." 

"Who  sold  it?" 

"Your  uncle." 

"He  is  a  very  naughty  man,  my  uncle:  is  not  he? 
But  can't  I  have  another  pony?  It  would  be  so  nice, 
this  fine  weather!  " 

"Ah!  my    dear,   I    wish  I  could    afford  it;    but  you 


70  KIGIIT   AND   MOKNING. 

shall  have  a  ride  this  week.  Yes,"  continued  the 
mother,  as  if  reasoning  Avith  herself,  in  excuse  of  the 
extravagance,  "he  does  not  look  well:  poor  child!  he 
must  have  exercise." 

"  A  ride !  —  oh !  that  is  my  own  kind  mamma !  "  ex- 
claimed Sidney,  clapping  his  hands.  "  Not  on  a  donkey, 
you  know !  —  a  pony.  The  man  down  the  street  there 
lets  ponies.  I  must  have  the  white  pony  with  the 
long  tail.  But  I  say,  mamma,  don't  tell  Philip,  pray 
don't;  he  would  be  jealous." 

"  No,  not  jealous,  my  dear;   why  do  you  think  so?  " 

"  Because  he  is  always  angry  when  I  ask  yow  for  any- 
thing. It  is  very  unkind  in  him,  for  I  don't  care  if  he 
has  a  pony,  too,  —  only  not  the  white  one." 

Here  the  postman's  knock,  loud  and  sudden,  startled 
Mrs.  Morton  from  her  seat.  She  pressed  her  hands 
tiglitly  to  lier  heart,  as  if  to  still  its  heating,  and 
went  tremulously  to  the  door,  thence  to  the  stairs, 
to  anticipate  the  lumbering  step  of  the  slipshod  maid- 
servant. 

"  Give  it  me,  Jane:  give  it  me!  " 

"One  shilling  and  eightpence:  charged  double, — if 
you  please,  ma'am!     Thank  you." 

"  jNIamma,  may  I  tell  Jane  to  engage  the  pony  1  " 

"Not  now,  my  love,  sit  down;  be  quiet:  I  —  I  am 
not  well." 

Sidney,  who  was  affectionate  and  oltedient,  crept  back 
peaceably  to  the  window,  and,  after  a  short,  impatient 
sigh,  resumed  the  scissors  and  the  story-book.  I  do  not 
apologize  to  the  reader  for  the  various  letters  I  am 
obliged  to  lay  before  him;  for  character  often  betrays 
itself  more  in  letters  than  in  speech.  Mr.  Roger  Mor- 
ton's reply  was  couched  in  these  terms-.  — 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  71 

Dear  Catherine,  —  I  have  received  your  letter  of  the  14th 
inst.,  and  write  per  return.  I  am  very  much  grieved  to  hear 
of  your  afflictions;  but,  whatever  you  say,  I  cannot  think  the 
late  Mr.  Beaufort  acted  like  a  conscientious  man,  in  forgetting 
to  make  his  will,  and  leaving  his  little  ones  destitute.  It  is 
all  very  well  to  talk  of  his  intentions  ;  but  the  proof  of  the 
pudding  is  in  the  eating.  And  it  is  hard  upon  me,  who  have 
a  large  family  of  my  own,  and  get  my  livelihood  by  honest 
industry,  to  have  a  rich  gentleman's  children  to  maintain.  As 
for  your  story  about  the  private  marriage,  it  may  or  not  be. 
Perhaps  you  were  taken  in  by  that  worthless  man,  for  a  real 
marriage  it  could  not  be.  And,  as  you  say,  the  law  has  de- 
cidetl  that  point  ;  therefore,  the  less  you  say  on  the  matter  the 
better.  It  all  comes  to  the  same  thing.  People  are  not  bound 
to  believe  what  can't  be  proved.  And  even  if  what  you  say 
is  true,  you  are  more  to  be  blamed  than  pitied  for  holding  your 
tongue  so  many  years,  and  discrediting  an  honest  family,  as 
ours  has  always  been  considered.  I  am  sure  my  wile  would 
not  have  thought  of  such  a  thing  for  the  finest  gentleman  that 
ever  wore  shoe-leather.  However,  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your 
feelings;  and  I  am  sure  I  am  ready  to  do  whatever  is  right  and 
proper.  You  cannot  expect  that  I  should  ask  you  to  my  house. 
My  wife,  you  know,  is  a  very  religious  woman,  —  what  is 
called  evangelical  ;  but  that 's  neither  here  nor  there.  I  deal 
with  all  people,  churchmen  and  dissenters,  —  even  Jews, — 
and  don't  trouble  my  head  much  about  differences  in  opinion. 
I  daresay  there  are  many  ways  to  heaven;  as  I  said,  the  other 
day,  to  Mr.  Thwaites,  our  member.  But  it  is  right  to  say  my 
wife  will  not  hear  of  your  coming  here;  and,  indeed,  it  might 
do  harm  to  my  business,  for  there  are  several  elderly  single 
gentlewomen  who  buy  flannel  for  the  poor  at  my  shop,  and 
tliey  are  very  particular, — as  they  ought  to  be,  indeed ;  for 
morals  are  very  strict  in  this  county,  and  particularly  in  this 
town,  where  we  certainly  do  pay  very  high  church-rates.  Not 
that  I  grumble;  for,  though  I  am  as  liberal  as  any  man,  I  am 
for  an  established  church,  —  as  I  ought  to  be,  since  the  dean  is 
my  best  customer.  With  regard  to  yourself,  I  enclose  you  £10, 
and  you  will  let  me  know  when  it  is  gone,  and  I  will  see  what 


i2  NIGHT   AND   MORNING, 

more  I  can  do.  You  say  you  are  very  poorly,  which  I  am 
sorry  to  hear ;  but  you  must  pluck  up  your  spirits,  and  take 
in  plain  work  ;  and  I  really  think  you  ought  to  apply  to  Mr. 
Robert  Beaufort.  He  bears  a  high  character;  and,  notwith- 
standing your  lawsuit,  which  I  cannot  approve  of,  I  daresay 
he  might  allow  you  £40  or  £50  a  year,  if  you  apply  properly, 
which  would  be  the  right  thing  in  him.  So  much  for  you. 
As  for  the  boys  —  poor,  fatherless  creatures  I  —  it  is  very  hard 
that  they  should  be  so  punished  for  no  fault  of  their  own;  and 
my  wife,  who,  though  strict,  is  a  good-hearted  woman,  is  ready 
and  willing  to  do  what  I  wish  about  them.  You  say  the  eldest 
is  near  sixteen,  and  well  come  on  in  his  studies.  I  can  get  him 
a  very  good  thing  in  a  light,  genteel  way.  My  wife's  brother, 
Mr.  Christopher  Plaskwith,  is  a  bookseller  and  stationer,  with 
pretty  practice,  in  R .  He  is  a  clever  man,  and  has  a  news- 
paper, which  he  kindly  sends  me  every  week  ;  and,  though  it 
is  not  my  county,  it  has  some  very  sensible  views,  and  is  often, 
noticed  in  the  London  papers,  as  "  our  provincial  contempo- 
rary." Mr.  Plaskwith  owes  me  some  money,  which  I  ad- 
vanced him  when  he  set  up  the  paper;  and  he  has  several 
times  most  honestly  offered  to  pay  me,  in  shares  in  the  said 
paper.  But,  as  the  thing  might  break,  and  I  don't  like  con- 
cerns I  don't  understand.  I  have  not  taken  advantage  of  his 
very  handsome  proposals.  Now  Plaskwith  wrote  me  word, 
two  days  ago,  that  he  wanted  a  genteel,  smart  lad,  as  assistant 
and  'prentice,  and  offered  to  take  my  eldest  boy  ;  but  we  can't 
spare  him.  I  write  to  Christopher  by  this  post ;  and  if  your 
youth  will  run  down  on  the  top  of  the  coach,  and  inquire  for 
Mr.  Plaskwith, — the  fare  is  trifling,  —  I  have  no  doubt  he 
will  be  engaged  at  once.  But  you  will  say,  "  There's  the  pre- 
mium to  consider!"  No  such  thing;  Kit  will  set  off  the 
premium  against  his  debt  to  me ;  so  you  will  have  nothing  to 
pay.  'T  is  a  very  pretty  business  ;  and  the  lad's  education 
will  get  him  on  :  so  that's  off  your  mind.  As  to  the  little 
chap,  I  '11  take  him  at  once.  You  say  he  is  a  pretty  boy;  and 
a  pretty  boy  is  always  a  help  in  a  linen-draper's  shop.  He 
shall  share  and  share  with  my  own  young  folks  ;  and  Mrs. 
Morton   will  take  care   of  his  washing  and  morals.     I  con- 


KIGHT   AND   MORNING.  73 

elude  (this  is  Mrs.  M.'s  suggestion)  that  he  has  had  the 
measles,  cowpock,  and  whooping-cough,  which  please  let  me 
know.  If  he  behave  well,  which,  at  liis  age,  we  can  easily 
break  him  into,  he  is  settled  for  life.  So  now  you  have  got 
rid  of  two  mouths  to  feed,  and  have  nobody  to  think  of  but 
yourself,  which  must  be  a  great  comfort.  Don't  forget  to 
Avrite  to  Mr.  Beaufort  ;  and  if  he  don't  do  something  for  you, 
he  's  not  the  gentleman  I  take  him  for.  But  you  are  my  own 
flesh  and  blood,  and  sha'n't  starve  ;  for,  though  I  don't  think 
it  right  in  a  man  in  business  to  encourage  what 's  wrong,  yet, 
when  a  person 's  downi  in  the  world,  I  think  an  ounce  of  help 
is  better  than  a  pound  of  preaching.  ^ly  wife  thinks  other- 
wise, and  wants  to  send  you  some  tracts;  but  everybody  can't 
be  as  correct  as  some  folks.  However,  as  I  said  before,  that 's 
neither  here  nor  there.  Let  me  know  when  your  boy  comes 
down,  an<l  also  about  the  measles,  cowpock,  and  whooping- 
cough  ;  also  if  all 's  right  with  Mr.  Plaskwith.  So  now  I  hope 
you  will  feel  more  comfortable  ;  and  remain,  dear  Catherine, 
your  forgiving  and  affectionate  brother, 

Roger  Morton. 
High  Street,  N ,  June  13. 

P.  S.  Mrs.  M.  says  that  she  will  be  a  mother  to  your  little 
boy,  and  that  you  had  better  mend  up  all  his  linen  before  you 
send  him. 

As  Catherine  finished,  this  epistle,  she  lifted  her  eyes 
and  beheld  Philip.  He  had  entered  noiselessly,  and 
he  remained  silent,  leaning  against  the  wall,  and  watch- 
ing the  face  of  his  mother,  which  crimsoned  with  pain- 
ful humiliation  while  she  read.  Philip  was  not  now 
the  trim  and  dainty  stripling  first  introduced  to  the 
reader.  He  had  outgrown  his  faded  suit  of  funereal 
mourning;  his  long-neglected  hair  hung  elf-like  and 
matted  down  his  cheeks;  there  was  a  gloomy  look  in  his 
bright  dark  eyes.  Poverty  never  betrays  itself  more 
than  in  the  features  and  forms  of  pride.     It  was  evident 


74  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

that  his  spirit  endured,  rather  than  accommodated  itself 
to,  his  fallen  state;  and  notwithstanding  his  soiled  and 
threadbare  garments,  and  a  haggardness  that  ill  becomes 
tlie  years  of  palmy  youth,  there  was  about  his  "whole 
mien  and  person  a  wild  and  savage  grandeur  more  im- 
pressive than  his  former  ruffling  arrogance  of  manner. 

"  Well,  mother,"  said  he,  Avith  a  strange  mixture  of 
sternness  in  his  countenance,  and  pity  in  his  voice, — 
"well,  mother,  and  what  says  your  brother?  " 

"  You  decided  for  us  once  before,  decide  again.  But 
I  need  not  ask  you ;  you  would  never  —  " 

"  T  don't  know,"  interrupted  Philip,  vaguely;  "  let 
me  see  Avhat  we  are  to  decide  on." 

Mrs.  Morton  was  naturally  a  woman  of  high  courage 
and  spirit,  but  sickness  and  grief  had  worn  down  both ; 
and  though  Philip  was  but  sixteen,  there  is  something 
in  the  very  nature  of  woman  —  especially  in  trouVjle  — ■ 
which  makes  her  seek  to  lean  on  some  other  will  than 
her  own.  She  gave  Philip  the  letter,  and  went  quietly 
to  sit  down  by  Sidney. 

"Your  brother  means  well,"  said  Philip,  when  he  had 
concluded  the  epistle. 

"  Yo.s,  but  nothing  is  to  be  done ;  I  cannot,  cannot 
send  poor  Sidney  to  —  to  —  "  and  Mrs.  Morton  sobbed. 

"  No,  my  dear,  dear  mother,  no;  it  would  be  terriljle, 
indeed,  to  part  you  and  him.  But  this  bookseller,  — 
Plaskwith,  —  perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to  support  you 
both." 

"  Why,  you  do  not  tliink,  Philip,  of  being  an  appren- 
tice!—  you,  who  have  been  so  brought  up,  —  you,  who 
are  so  proud !  " 

"  ^Mother,  I  would  sweep  the  crossings  for  your  sake! 
Mother,  for  your  sake,  I  would  go  to  my  uncle  Beaufort 
with  my  hat  in  my  hand,  for  halfpence.      Mother,  I  am 


NTGHT   AND    .MORNING.  75 

not  proud,  —  I  would  be  honest,  if  I  can,  — but  when  I 
see  you  pining  away,  and  so  changed,  tlie  devil  comes 
into  me,  and  I  often  shudder  lest  I  should  commit  some 
crime,  what,  I  don't  know!  " 

"  Come  here,  Philip,  my  own  Philip,  —  my  son,  my 
hope,  my  first-born!  "  — and  the  mother's  heart  gushed 
forth  in  all  the  fondness  of  early  days.  "  Don't  speak 
so  terribly,  you  frighten  me!  " 

She  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  kissed  him 
soothingly.  He  laid  his  burning  temples  on  her  bosom, 
and  nestled  himself  to  her,  as  he  had  been  wont  to  do, 
after  some  stormy  paroxysm  of  his  passionate  and  way- 
ward infancy.  So  there  they  remained,  —  their  lips 
silent,  their  hearts  speaking  to  each  other,  each  from 
each  taking  strange  succor  and  holy  strength,  —  till 
Philip  rose,  calm,  and  with  a  quiet  smile,  "  Good-by, 
mother;  I  will  go  at  once  to  Mr.  Plaskwith." 

"But  you  have  no  money  for  the  coach-fare;  here, 
Philip,"  and  she  placed  her  purse  in  his  hand,  hom 
which  he  reluctantly  selected  a  few  shillings.  "  And 
mind,  if  the  man  is  rude,  and  you  dislike  him, — 
mind,  you  must  not  subject  yourself  to  insolence  and 
mortification. " 

"  Oh,  all  Avill  go  well,  don't  fear,"  said  Philip,  cheer- 
fully, and  he  left  the  house. 

Towards  evening  he  had  reached  his  destination.  The 
shop  Avas  of  goodly  exterior,  Avith  a  private  entrance; 
over  the  shop  Avas  Avritten,  "Christopher  PlaskAvith, 
Bookseller  and  Stationer :  "  on  the  private  door  a  brass 

plate,  inscribed  Avith  "  R and  Mercury  Office, 

Mr.  Plaskwith. "  Philip  applied  at  the  private  entrance, 
and  Avas  shown  by  a  "  neat-handed  Phyllis  "  into  a  small 
office-room.  In  a  feAV  minutes  the  door  opened,  and 
the  bookseller  entered. 


76  NIGHT   A^■D   MORXING. 

Mr.  Christopher  Plaskwith  was  a  short,  stout  man, 
in  drab-colored  breeches,  and  gaiters  to  match,  a  black 
coat  and  waistcoat;  he  wore  a  large  watch-chain,  with  a 
prodigious  bunch  of  seals,  alternated  by  small  keys  and 
old-fashioned  mourning-rings.  His  complexion  was 
pale  and  sodden,  and  his  hair  short,  dark,  and  sleek. 
The  bookseller  valued  himself  on  a  likeness  to  Bona- 
parte, and  affected  a  short,  brusque,  peremptory  manner, 
which  he  meant  to  be  the  indication  of  the  vigorous  and 
decisive  character  of  his  prototype. 

"  So  you  are  the  young  gentleman  Mr.  Roger  Morton 
recommends?"  Here  Mr.  Plaskwith  took  out  a  huge 
pocketbook,  slowly  unclasped  it,  staring  hard  at  Philip, 
with  what  he  designed  for  a  piercing  and  penetrative 
survey. 

"  This  is  the  letter,  —  no!  this  is  Sir  Thomas  Cham- 
perdown's  order  for  fifty  copies  of  the  last  '  Mercury,' 
containing  his  speech  at  the  county  meeting.  Your  age, 
young  man  1  —  only  sixteen !  —  look  older :  that 's  not  it ; 
that's  not  it;  and  this  is  it  I  —  sit  down.  Yes,  Mr. 
Roger  Morton  recommends  you  —  a  relation  —  unfortu- 
nate circumstances  — well-educated  —  hum!  Well, 
young  man,  what  have  you  to  say  for  yourself]  " 

"Sir?" 

"  Can  you  cast  accounts  ?  —  know  book-keeping  ?  " 

"  I  know  something  of  algebra,  sir." 

"  Algebra !  —  oh,  what  else  ?  " 

"  French  and  Latin." 

"Hum!  —  may  be  useful.  Why  do  you  wear  your 
hair  so  long  ?  —  look  at  mine.     What 's  your  name  ?  " 

"Philip  Morton." 

"Mr.  Philip  ]\rorton,  you  have  an  intelligent  counte- 
nance, —  I  go  a  great  deal  by  countenances.  You  know 
the  terms?  —  most  favorable  to  you.     No  premium, — 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  77 

I  settle  that  with  Roger.  I  give  board  And  bed,  —  find 
your  own  washing.  Habits  regular,  —  'prenticeship 
only  five  years;  when  over,  must  not  set  up  in  the  same 
town.  I  will  see  to  the  indentures.  When  can  you 
come  ?  " 

"  When  you  please,  sir." 

"  Day  after  to-morrow,  by  six-o'clock  coach." 

"  But,  sir,"  said  Philip,  "  will  there  be  no  salary?  — 
something,  ever  so  small,  that  I  could  send  to  my 
mother  ?  " 

"  Salary ,  at  sixteen  1  —  board  and  bed,  —  no  premium ! 
Salary,  what  for?  'Prentices  have  no  salary!  —  you 
will  have  every  comfort." 

"  Give  me  less  comfort,  that  I  may  give  my  mother 
more,  —  a  little  money,  ever  so  little,  and  take  it  out  of 
my  board.     I  can  do  Avith  one  meal  a  day,  sir." 

The  bookseller  was  moved;  he  took  a  huge  pinchful  of 
snuff  out  of  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  mused  a  moment. 
He  then  said  as  he  re-examined  Philip,  — 

"  Well,  young  man,  I  '11  tell  you  what  we  will  do. 
You  shall  come  here  first  upon  trial  ?  —  see  if  we  like 
each  other  before  we  sign  the  indentures:  allow  you, 
meanwhile,  five  shillings  a  week.  If  you  show  talent, 
will  see  if  I  and  Roger  can  settle  about  some  little 
allowance.     That  do,  eh  1  " 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,  yes,"  said  Philip,  gratefully. 

"  Agreed,  then.     Follow  me,  —  present  you  to  Mrs.  P. " 

Thus  saying,  Mr.  Plaskwith  returned  the  letter  to 
the  pocketbook,  and  the  pocketbook  to  the  pocket; 
and,  putting  his  arms  behind  his  coat  tails,  threw  up 
his  chin,  and  strode  through  the  passage  into  a  small 
parlor,  that  looked  upon  a  small  garden.  Here,  seated 
round  the  table,  were  a  thin  lady,  with  a  squint  (Mrs. 
Plaskwith) ;  two  little  girls  (the  Misses  Plaskwith) ,  also 


78  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

with  squints,  —  and  pinafores;  a  young  man  of  three 
or  four  and  twenty,  in  nankeen  trousers,  a  little  the 
worse  for  washing,  and  a  black  velveteen  jacket  and 
waistcoat.  This  young  gentleman  was  very  much 
freckled;  wore  his  hair,  which  was  dark  and  wiry,  up 
at  one  side,  down  at  the  other;  had  a  short,  thick  nose; 
full  lips;  and,  when  close  to  him,  smelled  of  cigars. 
Such  was  Mr.  Plimmins,  Mr.  Plaskwith's  factotum, 
foreman  in  the  shop,  assistant-editor  to  the  "  Mercury." 
Mr.  Plaskwith  formally  went  the  round  of  the  intro- 
duction ;  Mrs.  P.  nodded  her  head ;  the  Misses  P.  nudged 
each  other,  and  grinned;  Mr.  Plimmins  passed  his 
hand  through  his  hair,  glanced  at  the  glass,  and  bowed 
very  politely. 

"Now,  Mrs.  P.,  my  second  cup,  and  give  Mr.  Mor- 
ton his  dish  of  tea.  Must  be  tired,  sir, — hot  day. 
Jemima,  ring,  —  no,  go  to  the  stairs,  and  call  out, 
'More  buttered  toast.'  That's  the  shorter  way, — 
promptitude  is  my  rule  in  life,  Mr.  Morton.  Pray  — 
hum,  hum  —  have  you  ever,  by  chance,  studied  the  biog- 
rapliy  of  the  great  Napoleon  Bonaparte  1  " 

Mr.  Plimmins  gulj^ed  down  liis  tea,  and  kicked  Philip 
under  the  table.  Philip  looked  fiercely  at  the  foreman, 
and  replied,  sullenly,  "No,  sir." 

"  That 's  a  pity.  Napoleon  Bonaparte  was  a  very 
great  man,  —  very!  You  have  seen  his  cast?  —  there  it 
is,  on  the  dumb-wailer!  Look  at  it!  see  a  likeness, 
eh  ?  " 

"  Likeness,  sir?     I  never  saw  Napoleon  Bonaparte." 

"Never  saw  him!  No!  just  look  round  the  room. 
Who  does  that  bust  put  you  in  mind  of;  who  does  it 
resemble?  " 

Here  Mr.  Plaskwith  rose,  and  placed  himself  in  an 
attitude;  his  hand    in  his  waistcoat,  and  his  face  pen- 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  79 

sively  inclined  towards  tlie  tea-table.  "  Now  fancy  me 
at  St.  H<'l(nia ;  this  table  is  the  ocean.  Now  then,  who 
is  tliat  cast  like,  Mr.  Philip  Morton?  " 

"  I  sxippose,  sir,  it  is  like  you!  " 

"Ah,  that  it  is!  strikes  every  one!  Does  it  not, 
Mrs.  P. ,  does  it  not  ?  And  when  you  have  known  me 
longer,  you  will  find  a  moral  similitude,  — a  moral,  sir! 
Straightforward,  short,  to  the  point,  bold,  determined!  " 

"  Bless  me,  Mr.  P. !  "  said  Mrs.  Plaskwith,  very 
querulously,  "do  make  haste  with  your  tea;  the  young 
gentleman,  I  suppose,  wants  to  go  home,  and  the  coach 
passes  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"  Have  you  seen  Kean  in  Richard  III. ,  Mr.  Morton  1  " 
asked  Mr.  Piimmius. 

"  I  have  never  seen  a  play. " 

"  Never  seen  a  play !     How  very  odd !  " 

"Not  at  all  odd,  Mr.  Plimrains,"  said  the  stationer. 
"Mr.  Morton  has  known  troubles,  —  so  hand  him  the 
hot  toast." 

Silent  and  morose,  but  rather  disdainful  than  sad, 
Philip  listened  to  the  babble  round  him,  and  observed 
the  ungenial  characters  with  which  he  was  to  associate. 
He  cared  not  to  please  (that,  alas!  had  never  been 
especially  his  study);  it  was  enough  for  him  if  he  could 
see,  stretching  to  his  mind's  eye  beyond  the  walls  of 
that  dull  room,  the  long  vistas  into  fairer  fortune.  At 
sixteen,  what  sorrow  can  freeze  the  hope,  or  what  pro- 
phetic fear  whisper  "  fool  "  to  the  ambition  1  He  would 
bear  back  into  ease  and  prosperity,  if  not  into  affluence 
and  station,  the  dear  ones  left  at  home.  Prom  the 
eminence  of  five  shillings  a  week,  he  looked  over  the 
Promised  Land. 

At  length  Mr.  Plaskwith,  pulling  out  his  watch, 
said,  "  Just  in  time  to  catch  the  coach ;  make  your  bow 


80  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

and  be  off,  —  smart 's  the  word!  "  Philip  rose,  took  up 
his  hat,  made  a  ytiff  bow  that  included  the  whole  group, 
and  vanished  with  his  host. 

^Mrs.  Plaskwith  breathed  more  easily  when  he  was 
gone. 

"  I  never  seed  a  more  odd,  fierce,  ill-bred-looking 
young  man!  I  declare  I  am  quite  afraid  of  him. 
What  an  eye  he  has!  " 

"Uncommonly  dark;  what,  I  may  say,  gypsy-like," 
said  ^Ir.  Plimmins. 

"  He !  he !  you  always  do  say  such  good  things,  Plim- 
mins. Gypsy-like!  he!  he!  So  he  is!  I  wonder  if 
he  can  tell  fortunes  1  " 

"  He  '11  be  long  before  he  has  a  fortune  of  his  own  to 
tell.     Ha!  ha!"  said  Plimmins. 

"He!  he!  how  very  good!  you  are  so  pleasant, 
Plimmins." 

While  these  strictures  on  his  appearance  were  still 
going  on,  Philip  had  already  ascended  the  roof  of  the 
coach,  and,  waving  his  hand  with  the  condescension  of 
old  times,  to  his  future  master,  was  carried  away  by  the 
"  Express  "  in  a  whirlwind  of  dust. 

"  A  very  warm  evening,  sir,"  said  a  passenger  seated 
at  his  right,  puffing,  while  he  spoke,  from  a  short  Ger- 
man pipe,  a  volume  of  smoke  into  Philip's  face. 

"  Very  warm.  Be  so  good  as  to  smoke  into  the  face 
of  the  gentleman  on  the  other  side  of  you,"  returned 
Philip,  petulantly. 

"Ho,  ho!  "  replied  the  passenger,  with  a  loud,  power- 
ful laugh, — the  laugh  of  a  strong  man.  "You  don't 
take  to  the  pipe  yet;  you  will  by-and-by,  when  you 
have  known  the  cares  and  anxieties  that  I  have  gone 
through.  A  pipe!  —  it  is  a  great  soother!  —  a  pleasant 
comforter!     Blue-devils   fly   before   its   honest   breath! 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  81 

It  ripens  the  brain,  —  it  opens  the  heart;  and  the 
man  who  smokes  thinks  like  a  sage,  and  acts  like  a 
Samaritan!  " 

Roused  from  his  reverie  by  this  quaint  and  unex- 
pected declamation,  Philip  turned  his  quick  glance  at 
his  neighbor.  He  saw  a  man  of  great  bulk,  and  im- 
mense physical  power,  —  broad-shouldered,  deep-chested, 
not  corpulent,  but  taking  the  same  girth  from  bone 
and  muscle  that  a  corpulent  man  does  from  flesh.  He 
wore  a  blue  coat, — frogged,  braided,  and  buttoned  to 
the  throat.  A  broad-brimmed  straw  hat,  set  on  one  side, 
gave  a  jaunty  appearance  to  a  countenance  which,  not- 
withstanding its  jovial  complexion  and  smiling  mouth, 
had,  in  repose,  a  bold  and  decided  character.  It  was  a 
face  well  suited  to  the  frame,  inasmuch  as  it  betokened 
a  mind  capable  of  wielding  and  mastering  the  brute  phys- 
ical force  of  body,  light  eyes  of  piercing  intelligence, 
rough,  but  resolute  and  striking  features,  and  a  jaw  of 
iron.  There  was  thought,  there  was  power,  there  Avas 
passion,  in  the  shaggy  brow,  the  deep-ploughed  lines, 
the  dilated  nostril,  and  the  restless  play  of  the  lips. 
Philip  looked  hard  and  gravely,  and  the  man  returned 
his  look. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  me,  young  gentleman  ?  "  asked 
the  passenger,  as  he  replaced  the  pipe  in  his  mouth. 
"  I  am  a  fine-looking  man,  am  I  not?  " 

"  You  seem  a  strange  one." 

"  Strange!  Ay,  I  puzzle  you,  as  I  have  done,  and 
shall  do  many.  You  cannot  read  me  as  easily  as  I  can 
read  you.  Come,  sliall  I  guess  at  your  character  and 
circumstances  ?  You  are  a  gentleman,  or  something 
like  it,  by  birth:  that  the  tone  of  your  voice  tells  me. 
You  are  poor,  devilish  poor:  that  the  hole  in  your  coat 
assures    me.      You    are    proud,  fiery,  discontented,  and 

VOL.  I.  —  6 


82  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

unhappy :  all  that  I  see  in  your  face.  It  was  because  I 
saw  those  signs  that  I  spoke  to  you.  I  volunteer  no 
acquaintance  with  the  happy." 

"  I  daresay  not;  for  if  you  know  all  the  unhappy,  you 
must  have  a  sufficiently  large  acquaintance,"  returned 
Philip. 

"Your  wit  is  beyond  your  years!  What  is  your 
calling,  if  the  question  does  not  offend  you?  " 

"  I  have  none  as  yet,"  said  Philip,  with  a  slight  sigh, 
and  a  deep  blush. 

"  More  's  the  pity !  "  grunted  the  smoker,  with  a  long, 
emphatic,  nasal  intonation.  "  I  should  have  judged 
that  you  were  a  raw  recruit  in  the  camp  of  the  enemy." 

"  Enemy!     I  don't  understand  you." 

"  In  otlier  words,  a  plant  growing  out  of  a  lawyer's 
desk.  I  will  explain.  There  is  one  class  of  spiders, 
industrious,  hard-working  octopedes,  who,  out  of  the 
sweat  of  their  brains  (I  take  it,  by  the  by,  that  a 
spider  must  have  a  fine  craniological  development), 
make  their  own  webs,  and  catch  their  own  flies.  There 
is  another  class  of  spiders  who  have  no  stuff  in  them 
wherewith  to  make  webs;  they,  therefore,  wander  abuut, 
looking  out  for  food  provided  by  the  toil  of  their 
neighbors.  Whenever  they  come  to  the  web  of  a 
smaller  spider,  whose  larder  seems  well  supplied,  they 
rush  upon  his  domain,  pursue  him  to  liis  hole,  eat  him 
up  if  they  can,  reject  hina  if  he  is  too  tough  for  their 
maws,  and  quietly  possess  themselves  of  all  the  legs 
and  wings  they  find  dangling  in  his  meshes;  these 
spiders  I  call  enemies,  — the  world  calls  them  lawyers!  " 

Philip  laughed:  "And  who  are  the  first  class  of 
spiders  ?  " 

"  Honest  creatures  who  openly  confess  that  they  live 
upon   flies.     Lawyers  fall  foul  upon  them,  under  pre- 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  83 

tence  of  delivering  flies  from  their  clutches.  They  are 
wonderful  blood-suckers,  these  lawyers,  in  spite  of  all 
their  hypocrisy.      Ha!  ha!     Ho!  ho!" 

And  with  a  loud,  rough  chuckle,  more  expressive  of 
malignity  than  mirth,  the  man  turned  himself  round, 
applied  vigorously  to  his  pipe,  and  sank  into  a  silence 
which,  as  mile  after  mile  glided  past  the  wheels,  he  did 
not  seem  disposed  to  break.  ISTeither  was  Philip  in- 
clined to  be  communicative.  Considerations  for  his  own. 
state  and  prospects  swallowed  up  the  curiosity  he  might 
otherwise  have  felt  as  to  his  singular  neighbor.  He 
had  not  touched  food  since  the  early  morning.  Anxiety 
had  made  him  insensible  to  hunger,  till  he  arrived  at 
Mr.  Plaskwith's;  and  then,  feverish,  sore,  and  sick  at 
heart,  the  sight  of  the  luxuries  gracing  the  tea-table 
only  revolted  him.  He  did  not  now  feel  hunger,  but 
he  was  fatigued  and  faint.  For  several  nights,  the 
sleep  which  youth  can  so  ill  dispense  with  had  been 
broken  and  disturbed;  and  now,  the  rapid  motion  of  the 
coach,  and  the  free  current  of  a  fresher  and  more  ex- 
hausting air  than  he  had  been  accustomed  to  for  many 
months,  began  to  operate  on  his  nerves  like  the  intoxi- 
cation of  a  narcotic.  His  eyes  grew  heavy;  indistinct 
mists,  through  which  there  seemed  to  glare  the  various 
squints  of  the  female  Plaskwiths,  succeeded  the  gliding 
road  and  the  dancing  trees.  His  head  fell  on  his  bosom, 
and  thence,  instinctively  seeking  the  strongest  support  at 
hand,  inclined  towards  the  stout  smoker,  and  finally 
nestled  itself  composedly  on  that  gentleman's  shoiilder. 
The  passenger,  feeling  this  unwelcome  and  unsolicited 
weight,  took  the  pipe,  which  he  had  already  thrice 
refilled,  from  his  lips,  and  emitted  an  angry  and  impa- 
tient snort;  finding  that  this  produced  no  effect,  and 
that   the    load   grew    heavier  as   the  boy's  sleep  grew 


84  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

deeper,  he  cried,  in  a  loud  voice,  "Hallo!  I  did  not 
pay  my  fare  to  be  your  bolster,  young  man !  "  and  shook 
himself  lustily.  Philip  started,  and  would  have  fallen 
sidelong  from  the  coach,  if  his  neighbor  had  not  griped 
him  hard  with  a  hand  that  could  have  kept  a  young  oak 
from  falling. 

"Eouse  yourself!  —  you  might  have  had  an  ugly 
tumble. " 

Philip  muttered  something  inaudible,  between  sleep- 
ing and  waking,  and  turned  his  dark  eyes  towards  the 
man;  in  that  glance  there  was  so  much  unconscious, 
but  sad  and  deep  reproach,  that  the  passenger  felt 
touched  and  ashamed.  Before,  however,  he  could  say 
anything  in  apology  or  conciliation,  Philip  had  again 
fallen  asleep.  But  this  time,  as  if  he  had  felt  and 
resented  the  rebuff  he  had  received,  he  inclined  his 
head  away  from  his  neighbor,  against  the  edge  of  a  box 
on  the  roof, — a  dangerous  pillow,  from  which  any 
sudden  jolt  might  transfer  him  to  the  road  below. 

"  Poor  lad!  —  he  looks  pale!  "  muttered  the  man,  and 
he  knocked  the  weed  from  his  pipe,  which  he  placed 
gently  in  his  pocket.  "l*erhaps  the  smoke  was  too 
much  for  him, — he  seems  ill  and  thin;"  and  he  took 
the  boy's  long,  lean  fingers  in  his  own.  "His  cheek  is 
hollow!  —  what  do  I  know  but  it  may  be  with  fasting? 
Pooh!  I  was  a  brute.  Hush,  coachee,  hush!  don't 
talk  so  loud,  and  be  d — d  to  you,  —  he  will  certainly  be 
off;"  and  the  man  softly  and  creepingly  encircled  the 
boy's  waist  with  his  huge  arm.  "  Now  then,  to  shift 
his  head;  so  —  so:  that 's  right."  Philip's  sallow  cheek 
and  long  hair  were  now  tenderly  lapped  on  the  solilo- 
quist's bosom.  "Poor  wretch!  he  smiles;  perhaps  he 
is  thinking  of  home,  and  tlie  Ijutterflies  he  ran  after 
when  he  was  an  urchin,  —  they  never  come  back,  those 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  85 

daj's,  —  never,  never,  never!  I  think  the  wind  veers  to 
the  east:  he  may  catch  cold;"  and  with  that,  the  man, 
sliding  the  head  for  a  moment,  and  with  the  tenderness 
of  a  woman,  from  his  breast  to  his  shoulder,  unbuttoned 
his  coat  (as  he  replaced  the  weight,  no  longer  unwel- 
come, in  its  former  part),  and  drew  the  lappets  closely 
round  the  slender  frame  of  the  sleeper,  exposing  his 
own  sturdy  breast  —  for  he  wore  no  waistcoat  —  to  the 
sharpening  air.  Thus  cradled  on  that  stranger's  bosom, 
wrapped  from  the  present,  and  dreaming  perhaps  — 
while  a  heart  scorched  by  fierce  and  terrible  struggles 
with  life  and  sin  made  his  pillow  —  of  a  fair  and  un- 
sullied future,  slept  the  fatherless  and  friendless  boy. 


86  NIGHT   AND    MOKNING. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Constance.  —  My  life,  my  joy,  my  food,  my  all  the  world, 
My  mdow-comfort. 

King  John. 

Amidst  the  glare  of  lamps,  the  rattle  of  carriages,  the 
lumbering  of  carts  and  wagons,  the  throng,  the  clamor, 
the  reeking  life,  and  dissonant  roar  of  London,  Philip 
woke  from  his  happy  sleep.  He  woke,  uncertain  and 
confused,  and  saw  strange  eyes  bent  on  him  kindly  and 
watchfully. 

"You  have  slept  well,  my  lad  I  "  said  the  passenger, 
in  the  deep  ringing  voice  which  made  itself  heard  above 
all  the  noises  round. 

"  And  you  have  suffered  me  to  incommode  you  thus  ?  " 
said  Philip,  with  more  gratitude  in  his  voice  and  look 
than,  perhaps,  he  had  sliown  to  any  one  out  of  his 
own  family  since  his  birth. 

"  You  have  had  but  little  kindness  shown  you,  my 
poor  boy ,  if  you  think  so  much  of  this. " 

"No;  all  people  were  very  kind  to  me  once.  I  did 
not  value  it  then."  Here  the  coach  rolled  heavily 
down  the  dark  arch  of  the  inn-yard. 

"Take  care  of  yourself,  my  boy!  You  look  ill;" 
and  in  the  dark,  the  man  slipped  a  sovereign  into 
Philip's  hand. 

"  I  don't  want  money.  Though  I  thank  you  heartily 
all  the  same;  it  would  be  a  shame  at  my  age  to  be  a 
beggar.  But  can  you  think  of  an  employment  where  I 
can  make  something  1  —  what  they  offer  me  is  so  trifling. 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  87 

I  have  a  mother  and  a  brother,  — a  mere  child,  sir,  — at 
home. " 

"  Employment !  "  repeated  the  man ;  and  as  the  coach 
now  stopped  at  the  tavern-door,  the  light  from  the  lamp 
fell  full  on  his  marked  face.  "  Ay,  I  know  of  employ- 
ment; hut  you  should  apply  to  some  one  else  to  obtain 
it  for  you!  As  for  me,  it  is  not  likely  that  we  shall 
meet  again!  " 

"I  am  sorry  for  that!  What  and  who  are  you?" 
asked  Philip,  with  a  rude  and  blunt  curiosity. 

"  Me !  "  returned  the  passenger,  with  his  deep  laugh ; 
"  Oh !  I  know  some  people  who  call  me  an  honest  fel- 
low. Take  the  employment  offered  you,  no  matter  how 
trifling  the  wages,  —  keep  out  of  harm's  way.  Good- 
night to  you!  " 

So  saying,  he  quickly  descended  from  the  roof,  and, 
as  he  was  directing  the  coachman  where  to  look  for  his 
carpet-bag,  Philip  saw  three  or  four  well-dressed  men 
make  up  to  him,  shake  him  heartily  by  the  hand,  and 
welcome  liim  with  great  seeming  cordiality, 

Philip  sighed.  "  He  has  friends,"  he  muttered  to 
himself;  and,  paying  his  fare,  he  turned  from  the  bust- 
ling yard,  and  took  his  solitary  way  home. 

A  week  after  his   visit  to  R ,  Philip  was  settled 

on  his  probation  at  Mr.  Plaskwith's,  and  Mrs.  Morton's 
health  was  so  decidedly  worse,  that  she  resolved  to  know 
her  fate,  and  consult  a  physician.  The  oracle  was  at 
first  ambiguous  in  its  response.  But  when  Mrs.  Morton 
said  firmly,  "  I  have  duties  to  perform ;  upon  your  can- 
did answer  rest  my  plans  with  respect  to  my  children, 
left,  if  I  die  suddenly,  destitute  in  the  world,"  —  the 
doctor  looked  hard  in  her  face,  saw  its  calm  resolution, 
and  replied  frankly,  — 

"  Lose  no  time,  then,  in  arranging  your  plans;  life  is 


88  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

uncertain  with  all,  —  with  you,  especially ;  you  may  live 
some  time  yet,  but  your  constitution  is  much  shaken. 
I  fear  there  is  water  on  the  chest.  No,  ma'am,  —  no 
fee.     I  will  see  you  again." 

The  physician  turned  to  Sidney,  who  played  with  his 
watch-chain,  and  smiled  up  in  his  face. 

"And  that  child,  sir?"  said  the  mother,  wistfully, 
forgetting  the  dread  fiat  pronounced  against  herself,  — 
"  he  is  so  delicate!  " 

"  Not  at  all,  ma'am,  — a  very  fine  little  fellow;  "  and 
the  doctor  patted  the  boy's  head,  and  abruptly  vanished. 

"  Ah!  mamma,  I  wish  you  would  ride,  —  I  wish  you 
would  take  the  white  pony." 

"  Poor  boy !  poor  boy !  "  muttered  the  mother ;  "  I 
must  not  be  selfish."  She  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,  and  began  to  think. 

Could  she,  thus  doomed,  resolve  on  declining  her 
brother's  ofi'er?  Did  it  not,  at  least,  secure  bread  and 
shelter  to  her  child?  When  she  was  dead,  might  not  a 
tie  between  the  uncle  and  nephew  be  snapped  asimder? 
Would  he  be  as  kind  to  the  boy  as  now,  when  she 
should  commend  him  with  her  own  lips  to  his  care,  — 
when  she  could  place  that  precious  charge  into  his 
hands?  With  these  thoughts,  she  formed  one  of  those 
resolutions  which  have  all  the  strength  of  self-sacrificing 
love.  She  would  put  the  boy  from  her,  her  last  solace 
and  comfort;  she  would  die  alone  —  alone! 


NIGHT  AND   MOKNING.  89 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Constance.  —  When  I  shall  meet  him  ia  the  court  of  heaven, 
I  shall  not  know  him. 

King  John, 

One  evening,  the  shop  closed  and  the  business  done, 
Mr.  Roger  Morton  and  his  family  sat  in  that  snug  and 
comfortable  retreat  which  generally  backs  the  warerooras 
of  an  English  tradesman.  Happy  often,  and  indeed 
happy,  is  that  little  sanctuary,  near  to,  and  yet  remote 
from,  the  toil  and  care  of  the  busy  mart  from  whicli  its 
homely  ease  and  peaceful  security  are  drawn.  Glance 
down  those  rows  of  silenced  shops  in  a  town  at  night, 
and  picture  the  glad  and  quiet  groups  gathered  within, 
over  that  nightly  and  social  meal  which  custom  has 
banished  from  the  more  indolent  tribes  who  neither  toil 
nor  spin.  Placed  between  the  two  extremes  of  life, 
the  tradesman  who  ventures  not  beyond  his  means,  and 
sees  clear  books  and  sure  gains,  with  enough  of  occupa- 
tion to  give  healthful  excitement,  enough  of  fortune  to 
greet  each  new-born  child  without  a  sigh,  might  be  en- 
vied alike  by  those  above  and  those  below  his  state,  — 
if  the  restless  heart  of  man  ever  envied  content! 

"  And  so  the  little  boy  is  not  to  come  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Morton,  as  she  crossed  her  knife  and  fork,  and  pushed 
away  her  plate,  in  token  that  she  had  done  supper. 

"  I  don't  know.  Children,  go  to  bed;  there  —  there: 
that  will  do.  Good-night!  —  Catherine  does  not  say 
either  yes  or  no.     She  wants  time  to  consider. " 


90  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

■"  It  was  a  very  handsome  offer  on  our  part;  some  folks 
never  know  when  they  are  well  off." 

"  That  is  very  true,  my  dear,  and  you  are  a  very  sen- 
sible person.  Kate  herself  might  have  been  an  honest 
woman,  and,  what  is  more,  a  very  rich  woman,  by  this 
time.  She  might  have  married  Spencer,  the  young 
brewer,  —  an  excellent  man,  and  well-to-do!  " 

"  Spencer!     I  don't  remember  him." 

"No;  after  she  went  off  he  retired  from  business,  and 
left  the  place.  I  don't  know  what's  become  of  him. 
He  was  mightily  taken  with  her,  to  be  sure.  She  was 
uncommonly  handsome,  my  sister  Catherine." 

"Handsome  is  as  handsome  does,  Mr.  Morton,"  said 
the  wife,  who  was  very  much  marked  with  the  small- 
pox. "  We  all  have  our  temptations  and  trials;  this 
is  a  vale  of  tears,  and  without  grace  we  are  whited 
sepulchres." 

^Ir.  Morton  mixed  his  brandy-and-water,  and  moved 
his  chair  into  its  customary  corner. 

"  You  saw  your  brother's  letter,"  said  he,  after  a 
pause;  "  he  gives  young  Philip  a  very  good  character." 

"The  human  heart  is  very  deceitful,"  replied  Mrs. 
Morton,  who,  by  the  way,  spoke  through  her  nose. 
"Pray  Heaven  he  may  be  what  he  seems;  but  what 's 
bred  in  the  bone  comes  out  in  the  flesh." 

"We  must  hope  the  best,"  said  Mr.  Morton,  mildly, 
"  and  —  put  another  lump  into  the  grog,  my  dear." 

"  It  is  a  mercy,  I  'm  thinking,  that  we  did  n't  have 
the  other  little  boy.  I  daresay  he  has  never  even  been 
taught  his  catechism :  them  people  don't  know  what  it 
is  to  be  a  mother.  And,  besides,  it  would  have  been 
very  awkward,  ]\Ir.  M.,  we  could  never  have  said  who 
he  was;  and  I  've  no  doubt  Miss  Pryinall  would  have 
been  very  curious." 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  91 

"  Miss  Pryinall  be  —  "  INIr.  iNForton  checked  him- 
self, took  a  large  draught  of  the  l)rai)dy-and-water,  and 
added,  "  Miss  Pryinall  wants  to  have  a  finger  in  every- 
body's pie." 

"  But  she  buys  a  deal  of  flannel,  and  does  great  good 
to  the  town;  it  was  she  who  found  out  that  Mrs.  Giles 
was  no  better  than  she  should  be." 

"Poor  Mrs.  Giles!  —  she  came  to  the  workhouse." 

"Poor  Mrs.  Giles,  indeed!  I  wonder,  Mr.  Morton, 
that  you,  a  married  man  with  a  family,  should  say  poor 
Mrs.  Giles!" 

"  My  dear,  when  people  who  have  been  well  off  come 
to  the  workhouse,  they  may  be  called  poor.  But  that 's 
neither  here  nor  there;  only,  if  the  boy  does  come  to  us, 
we  must  look  sharp  upon  Miss  Pryinall." 

"  I  hope  he  won't  come,  —  it  will  be  very  unpleasant. 
And  when  a  man  has  a  wife  and  family,  the  less  he 
meddles  with  other  folks  and  their  little  ones  the  bet- 
ter. For,  as  the  Scripture  says,  '  A  man  shall  cleave  to 
his  wife  and  —  '  " 

Here  a  sharp,  shrill  ring  at  the  bell  was  heard,  and 
Mrs.  Morton  broke  off  into,  — 

"Well!  I  declare!  at  this  hour;  who  can  that  be? 
And  all  gone  to  bed!     Do  go  and  see,  Mr.  Morton." 

Somewhat  reluctantly  and  slowly  Mr.  Morton  rose, 
and,  proceeding  to  the  passage,  unbarred  the  door.  A 
brief  and  muttered  conversation  followed,  to  the  great 
irritability  of  Mrs.  Morton,  who  stood  in  the  passage,  — ■ 
the  candle  in  her  hand. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Mr.  M.  1  " 

Mr,  Morton  turned  back,  looking  agitated. 

"  Where  's  my  hat  ?  —  oh,  here.  My  sister  is  come,  at 
the  inn." 

"Gracious  me!  She  does  not  go  for  to  say  she  is 
i/oti7'  sister  1  " 


92  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  Xo,  no  :  here  's  her  note,  —  calls  herself  a  lady  that 's 
ill.     I  shall  be  back  soon." 

"  She  can't  come  here ;  she  sha'n't  come  here,  Mr. 
]\r.  I 'm  an  honest  woman;  she  can't  come  here.  You 
understand  —  " 

Mr.  Morton  had  naturally  a  stern  countenance,  stern 
to  every  one  but  his  wife.  The  shrill  tone  to  which  he 
was  so  long  accustomed  jarred  then  on  his  heart  as  well 
as  ear.     He  frowned,  — 

"Pshaw!  woman,  you  have  no  feeling!"  said  he, 
and  walked  out  of  the  house,  pulling  his  hat  over  his 
brows. 

That  was  the  only  rude  speech  Mr.  Morton  had  ever 
made  to  his  better  half.  She  treasured  it  up  in  her 
heart  and  memory;  it  was  associated  with  the  sister 
and  the  cliild;  and  she  was  not  a  woman  who  ever 
forgave. 

jNfr.  Morton  walked  rapidly  through  the  still,  moonlit 
streets  till  he  reached  the  inn.  A  club  was  held  that 
night  in  one  of  the  rooms  below ;  and  as  he  crossed  the 
threshold  the  sound  of  "  hip  —  hip  —  hurrah!  "  mingled 
witli  the  stamping  of  feet  and  the  jingling  of  glasses, 
saluted  his  entrance.  He  was  a  stiff,  sober,  respectable 
man,  — a  man  who,  except  at  elections  (he  was  a  great 
politician),  mixed  in  none  of  the  revels  of  his  more 
boisterous  townsmen.  The  sounds,  the  spot,  were  un- 
genial  to  him.  He  paused,  and  the  color  of  shame  rose 
to  liis  brow.  He  was  ashamed  to  be  there,  —  ashamed 
to  meet  the  desolate  and,  as  he  believed,  erring  sister. 

A  pretty  maid-servant,  heated  and  flushed  with  orders 
and  compliments,  crossed  his  path  with  a  tray  full  of 
glasses. 

"  There  's  a  lady  come  by  the  Telegraph  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  upstairs,  No.  2,  Mr.  Morton." 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  93 

Mr.  Morton  !  He  shrank  at  the  sound  of  his  own 
name.  "  My  wife 's  right,"  he  muttered.  "After  all, 
this  is  more  unpleasant  than  I  thought  for. " 

The  slight  stairs  shook  under  his  hasty  tread.  He 
opened  the  door  of  No.  2,  and  that  Catherine,  wliom  he 
had  last  seen  at  her  age  of  gay  sixteen,  radiant  with 
bloom,  and,  but  for  her  air  of  pride,  the  model  for 
a  Hebe;  that  Catherine,  old  ere  youth  was  gone,  pale, 
faded,  the  dark  hair  silvered  over,  the  cheeks  hol- 
low, and  the  eye  dim,  —  that  Catherine  fell  upon  his 
breast ! 

"  God  bless  you,  brother!  How  kind  to  come!  How 
long  since  we  have  met!  " 

"  Sit  down,  Catherine,  my  dear  sister.  You  are 
faint;  you  are  very  much  changed, — very.  I  should 
not  have  known  you. " 

"  Brother,  I  have  brought  my  boy ;  it  is  painful  to 
part  from  him, — very,  very  painful:  but  it  is  right, 
and  God's  will  be  done."  She  turned,  as  she  spoke, 
towards  a  little,  deformed,  rickety  dwarf  of  a  sofa,  that 
seemed  to  hide  itself  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  low, 
gloomy  room;  and  Morton  followed  her.  With  one 
hand  she  removed  the  shawl  that  she  had  thrown  over 
the  child,  and  placing  the  forefinger  of  the  other  upon 
her  lips,  —  lips  that  smiled  then^  —  she  whispered,  "  We 
will  not  wake  him,  he  is  so  tired.  But  I  would  not 
put  him  to  bed  till  you  had  seen  him. " 

And  there  slept  poor  Sidney,  his  fair  cheek  pillowed 
on  his  arm ;  the  soft,  silky  ringlets  thrown  from  the 
delicate  and  unclouded  brow;  the  natural  bloom  in- 
creased by  warmth  and  travel ;  the  lovely  face  so  inno- 
cent and  hushed;  the  breathing  so  gentle  and  regular, 
as  if  never  broken  by  a  sigh. 

Mr.  Morton  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes. 


94  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

There  was  something  very  touching  in  the  contrast 
between  that  Avakeful,  anxious,  forlorn  woman,  and  the 
slumber  of  the  unconscious  boy.  And  in  that  moment, 
what  breast  upon  which  the  light  of  Christian  pity,  of 
natural  affection,  had  ever  dawned,  would,  even  suppos- 
ing the  world's  judgment  were  true,  have  recalled 
Catherine's  reputed  error  ?  There  is  so  divine  a  holiness 
in  the  love  of  a  mother,  that,  no  matter  how  the  tie 
that  binds  her  to  the  child  was  formed,  she  becomes,  as 
it  were,  consecrated  and  sacred;  and  the  past  is  for- 
gotten, and  the  world  and  its  harsh  verdicts  swept  away, 
when  that  love  alone  is  visible;  and  the  God  who 
watches  over  the  little  one  sheds  His  smile  over  the 
human  deputy  in  whose  tenderness  there  breathes  His 
own. 

"  You  will  be  kind  to  him,  will  you  not?  "  said  Mrs. 
Morton,  and  the  appeal  was  made  Avith  that  trustful, 
almost  cheerful  tone  which  implies,  "  Who  would  not 
be  kind  to  a  thing  so  fair  and  helpless  1  "  "  He  is  very 
sensitive  and  very  docile;  you  will  never  have  occasion 
to  say  a  hard  word  to  him,  —  never!  you  have  children 
of  your  own ,  brother  1  " 

"  He  is  a  beautiful  boy,  —  beautiful.  I  will  be  a 
father  to  him !  " 

As  he  spoke,  the  recollection  of  his  wife  —  sour, 
querulous,  austere  —  came  over  him;  but  he  said  to 
himself,  "  She  must  take  to  such  a  child,  —  women  al- 
ways take  to  beauty." 

He  bent  down  and  gently  pressed  his  lips  to  Sidney's 
forehead:  Mrs.  Morton  repdaced  the  shawl,  and  drew 
her  brother  to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

"  And  now,"  she  said,  coloring  as  she  spoke,  "  I  must 
see  your  wife,  brother;  there  is  so  much  to  say  about  a 
child  that  only  a  woman  will   recollect.     Is  she  very 


NIGHT   AND    :iIOrvNIXG.  95 

good-tempered  and  kind,  your  wife?  You  know  I 
never  saw  her;  you  married  after  —  after  I  left." 

"She  is  a  very  worthy  woman,"  said  Mr.  Morton, 
clearing  his  throat,  "  and  brought  me  some  money.  She 
has  a  will  of  her  own,  as  most  women  have ;  hut  that  's 
neither  here  nor  there,  —  she  is  a  good  wife  as  wives 
go,  and  prudent  and  painstaking;  I  don't  know  what  I 
should  do  without  her." 

"  Brother,  I  have  one  favor  to  request,  —  a  great 
favor." 

"  Anything  I  can  do  in  the  way  of  money  ?  " 

"  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  money.  I  can't  live 
long,  —  don't  shake  your  head,  —  I  can't  live  long.  I 
have  no  fear  for  Philip,  he  has  so  much  spirit,  such 
strength  of  character,  —  but  that  child  !  I  cannot  bear 
to  leave  him  altogether.  Let  me  stay  in  this  town,  —  I 
can  lodge  anywhere ;  but  to  see  him  sometimes,  to  know 
I  shall  be  in  reach  if  he  is  ill,  —  let  me  stay  here,  let 
me  die  here  !  " 

"  You  must  not  talk  so  sadly.  You  are  young  yet,  — 
younger  than  I  am;   /don't  think  of  dying." 

"  Heaven  forbid !  but  —  " 

"Well  —  well,"  interrupted  Mr.  Morton,  who  began 
to  fear  his  feelings  would  hurry  him  into  some  promise 
which  his  wife  would  not  suffer  him  to  keep;  "you 
shall  talk  to  Margaret,  — that  is,  Mrs.  Morton:  T  will 
get  her  to  see  you,  — yes,  I  think  I  can  contrive  that; 
and  if  you  can  arrange  with  her  to  stay,  —  but  you  see, 
as  she  brought  the  money,  and  is  a  very  particular 
woman  —  " 

"  I  Avill  see  her;  thank  you,  thank  you:  she  cannot 
refuse  me. 

"  And,  brother,"  resumed  IMrs.  ]\rorton,  after  a  short 
pause,  and  speaking  in  a  firm  voice,  —  "  and  is  it  possible 


96  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

that   you  disbelieve  my   story;  that   you,  like   all  the 
rest,  consider  my  children  the  sons  of  shame?  " 

There  was  an  honest  earnestness  in  Catherine's  voice, 
as  she  spoke,  that  miglit  have  convinced  many.  But 
Mr.  Morton  was  a  man  of  facts,  a  practical  man,  — a  man 
who  believed  that  law  was  always  right,  and  that  the 
improbable  was  never  true. 

He  looked  down  as  he  answered,  "  I  think  you  have 
been  a  very  ill-used  woman,  Catherine,  and  that  is  all  I 
can  say  on  the  matter:  let  us  drop  the  subject." 

"No!  I  was  not  ill-used;  my  husband, — yes,  my 
husband  was  noble  and  generous  from  first  to  last.  It 
was  for  the  sake  of  his  children's  prospects,  for  the 
expectations  they,  through  him,  might  derive  from  his 
proud  uncle,  that  he  concealed  our  marriage.  Do  not 
blame  Philip,  —  do  not  condemn  the  dead." 

"  I  don't  want  to  blame  any  one,"  said  Mr.  Morton, 
rather  angrily.  "  I  am  a  plain  man,  —  a  tradesman,  and 
can  only  go  by  what  in  my  class  seems  fair  and  honest, 
which  I  can't  think  Mr.  Beaufort's  conduct  was,  put  it 
how  you  will.  If  he  marries  you  as  you  think,  he  gets 
rid  of  a  witness,  he  destroys  a  certificate,  and  he  dies 
without  a  will.  However,  all  that 's  neither  here  nor 
there.  You  do  quite  right  not  to  take  the  name  of 
Beaufort,  since  it  is  an  uncommon  name,  and  would 
always  make  the  story  public.  Least  said  soonest 
mended.  You  must  always  consider  that  your  children 
will  be  called  natural  children,  and  have  their  own  way 
to  make.  No  harm  in  that!  Warm  day  for  your 
journey."  Catherine  sighed,  and  wiped  her  eyes;  she 
no  longer  reproached  the  world  since  the  son  of  her 
own  mother  disbelieved  her. 

The  relations  talked  together  for  some  minutes  on  the 
past,   the    present;   but  there    was   embarrassment    and 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  97 

constraint  on  both  sides,  —  it  was  so  difficult  to  avoid 
one  subject;  and  after  sixteen  years  of  absence,  there  is 
little  left  in  coiunion,  even  between  those  who  once 
played  together  round  their  parents'  knees.  Mr.  Mor- 
ton was  glad  at  last  to  find  an  excuse  in  Catherine's 
fatigue  to  leave  her.  "  Cheer  up,  and  take  a  glass  of 
something  warm  before  you  go  to  bed.  Good-night!  " 
these  were  his  parting  words. 

Long  was  the  conference,  and  sleepless  the  couch  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morton.  At  first  that  estimable  lady 
positively  declared  she  would  not  and  could  not  visit 
Catherine  (as  to  receiving  her,  that  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion). But  she  secretly  resolved  to  give  up  that  point 
in  order  to  insist  with  greater  strength  upon  anotlier, 
—  namely,  the  impossibility  of  Catherine  remaining  in 
the  town.  Such  concession  for  the  purpose  of  resistance 
being  a  very  common  and  sagacious  policy  with  married 
ladies.  Accordingly,  when  suddenly,  and  with  a  good 
grace,  Mrs.  Morton  appeared  affected  by  her  husband's 
eloquence,  and  said,  "  Well,  poor  thing!  if  she  is  so  ill, 
and  you  wish  it  so  much,  I  will  call  to-morrow."  Mr. 
Morton  felt  his  heart  softened  towards  the  many  ex- 
cellent reasons  which  his  wife  urged  against  allowing 
Catherine  to  reside  in  the  town.  He  was  a  political 
character;  he  had  many  enemies;  the  story  of  his 
seduced  sister,  now  forgotten,  would  certainly  be  raked 
up;  it  would  affect  his  comfort,  perhaps  his  trade,  cer- 
tainly his  eldest  daughter  who  was  now  thirteen ;  it 
would  be  impossible  then  to  adopt  the  plan  hitherto  re- 
solved upon,  —  of  passing  oft"  Sidney  as  the  legitimate 
orphan  of  a  distant  relation;  it  would  be  made  a  great 
handle  for  gossip  by  Miss  Pryinall.  Added  to  all 
these  reasons,  one  not  less  strong  occv;rred  to  Mr.  Mor- 
ton himself,  —  the  uncommon  and  merciless  rigidity  of 

VOL.  I.  —  7 


98  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

his  wife  would  render  all  the  other  women  in  the  town 
very  glad  of  any  topic  that  would  humble  her  own 
sense  of  immaculate  propriety.  Moreover,  he  saw  that 
if  Catherine  did  remain,  it  would  be  a  perpetual  source 
of  irritation  in  his  own  home ;  he  was  a  man  who  liked 
an  easy  life,  and  avoided,  as  far  as  possible,  all  food  for 
domestic  worry.  And  thus,  when  at  length  the  wedded 
pair  turned  back  to  back,  and  composed  themselves  to 
sleep,  the  conditions  of  peace  were  settled,  and  the 
weaker  party,  as  usual  in  diplomacy,  sacrificed  to  the 
interests  of  the  united  powers. 

After  breakfast  the  next  morning  Mrs.  Morton  sal- 
lied out  on  her  husband's  arm.  Mr.  Morton  was  rather 
a  handsome  man,  with  an  air  and  look  grave,  composed, 
severe,  that  had  tended  much  to  raise  his  character  in 
the  town.  Mrs.  Morton  was  short,  wiry,  and  bony. 
She  had  won  her  husband  by  making  desperate  love  to 
hira,  to  say  nothing  of  a  dower  that  enabled  him  to  ex- 
tend his  business,  new  front,  as  well  as  new  stock,  his 
shop,  and  rise  into  the  very  first  rank  of  tradesmen  in  his 
native  town.  He  still  believed  that  she  was  exces- 
sively fond  of  him,  —  a  common  delusion  of  husbands, 
especially  when  henpecked.  Mrs.  Morton  was,  per- 
haps, fond  of  him  in  her  own  way;  for  though  her  heart 
was  not  warm,  there  may  be  a  great  deal  of  fondness 
with  very  little  feeling.  The  worthy  lady  was  now 
clothed  in  her  best.  She  had  a  proper  pride  in  showing 
the  rewards  that  belong  to  female  virtue.  Flowers 
adorned  her  Leghorn  bonnet,  and  her  green  silk  gown 
boasted  four  flounces,  — such  then  was,  I  am  told,  the 
fashion.  She  wore,  also,  a  very  handsome  black 
shawl,  extremely  heavy,  though  the  day  was  oppres- 
sively hot,  and  with  a  deep  border;  a  smart  sevigne 
brooch  of  yellow  topazes  glittered  in  her  breast;  a  huge 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  99 

gilt  serpent  glared  from  her  waist-band ;  her  hair,  or 
more  properly  speaking  her  front,  was  tortured  into 
very  tight  curls,  and  her  feet  into  very  tight,  half-laced 
boots,  from  wliich  the  fragrance  of  new  leather  had  not 
yet  departed.  It  was  this  last  infliction,  for  il  faut 
souffrir  pour  etre  belle,  which  somewhat  yet  more 
acerbated  the  ordinary  acid  of  Mrs.  Morton's  temper. 
The  sweetest  disposition  is  ruffled  when  the  shoe 
pinches ;  and  it  so  happened  that  Mrs.  Roger  Morton  was 
one  of  those  ladies  who  always  have  chilblains  in  the 
winter  and  corns  in  the  summer. 

"  So  you  say  your  sister  is  a  beauty  ?  " 

"  Was  a  beauty,  Mrs.  M. ,  —  was  a  beauty.  People 
alter." 

"  A  bad  conscience,  Mr.  Morton,  is  —  " 

"  My  dear,  can't  you  walk  faster?  " 

"  If  you  had  my  corns,  j\[r.  Morton,  you  would  not 
talk  in  that  way !  " 

The  happy  pair  sank  into  silence,  only  broken  by 
sundry  "  How  d'  ye  do's?  "  and  "  Good  mornings!  "  in- 
terchanged with  their  friends,  till  they  arrived  at  the 
inn. 

"  Let  us  go  up  quickly,"  said  Mrs.  Morton, 

And  quiet, — quiet  to  gloom,  did  the  inn,  so  noisy 
over-night,  seem  by  morning.  The  shutters  partially 
closed  to  keep  out  the  sun,  the  tap-room  deserted,  the 
passage  smelling  of  stale  smoke,  an  elderly  dog,  lazily 
snapping  at  the  flies,  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  —  not 
a  soul  to  be  seen  at  the  bar.  The  husband  and  wife, 
glad  to  be  unobserved,  crept  on  tiptoe  up  the  stairs,  and 
entered  Catherine's  apartment. 

Catherine  was  seated  on  the  sofa,  and  Sidney  —  dressed, 
like  Mrs.  Eoger  Morton,  to  look  his  prettiest,  nor  yet 
aware    of   the    change    that    awaited    his    destiny,  but 


100  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

pleased  at  the  excitement  of  seeing  new  friends,  as  hand- 
some children  sure  of  praise  and  petting  usually  are  — ■ 
stood  by  her  side. 

"My  wife,  —  Catherine,"  said  Mr.  Morton.  Cath- 
erine rose  eagerly,  and  gazed  searchingly  on  her  sister- 
in-law's  hard  face.  She  swallowed  the  convulsive  rising 
at  her  heart  as  she  gazed,  and  stretched  out  both  her 
hands,  not  so  much  to  welcome  as  to  plead.  Mrs. 
Roger  Morton  drew  herself  up,  and  then  dropped  a 
courtesy :  it  was  an  involuntary  piece  of  good-breeding, 
—  it  was  extorted  by  the  noble  countenance,  the  ma- 
tronly mien  of  Catherine,  different  from  what  she  had 
anticipated;  she  dropped  the  courtesy,  and  Catherine 
took  her  hand  and  pressed  it. 

"  This  is  my  son ;  "  she  turned  away  her  head.  Sid- 
ney advanced  towards  his  protectress  who  was  to  be, 
and  ^Irs.  Roger  muttered,  — 

"  Come  here,  my  dear!     A  fine  little  boy!  " 

"As  fine  a  child  as  ever  I  saw!  "  said  Mr.  Morton, 
heartily,  as  he  took  Sidney  on  his  lap,  and  stroked 
down  his  golden  hair. 

This  displeased  Mrs.  Roger  Morton ;  but  she  sat  her- 
self down,  and  said  it  was  "  very  warm." 

"Now  go  to  that  lady,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Morton. 
"  Is  she  not  a  very  nice  lady  ?  —  don't  you  think  you 
shall  like  her  very  much  ?  " 

Sidney,  the  best-mannered  child  in  the  world,  went 
boldly  up  to  Mrs.  Morton,  as  he  was  bid.  Mrs.  Morton 
was  embarrassed.  Some  folks  are  so  with  other  folk's 
children:  a  child  either  removes  all  constraint  from  a 
party,  or  it  increases  tlie  constraint  tenfold.  Mrs. 
Morton,  however,  forced  a  smile,  and  said,  "  I  have  a 
little  boy  at  home  about  your  age." 

"  Have  you?  "  exclaimed  Catherine,  eagerly;  and,  as 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  101 

if  that  confession  made  them  friends  at  once,  she  drew 
a  chair  close  to  her  sister-in-law's:  "My  brother  has 
told  you  all  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  And  I  shall  stay  here,  —  in  the  town  somewhere,  — • 
and  see  him  sometimes  ?  " 

Mrs.  Roger  Morton  glanced  at  her  husband ;  her  hus- 
band glanced  at  the  door,  —  and  Catherine's  quick  eye 
turned  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  Mr.  Morton  will  explain,  ma'am,"  said  the  wife. 

"E-hem!  —  Catherine,  my  dear,  I  am  afraid  that  is 
out  of  the  question,"  —  began  Mr.  Morton,  who,  when 
fairly  put  to  it,  could  be  business-like  enough.  "You 
see  bygones  are  bygones  and  it  is  no  use  raking  them 
up.  But  many  people  in  the  town  will  recollect 
you. " 

"  No  one  will  see  me,  —  no  one,  but  you  and  Sidney. " 

"  It  will  be  sure  to  creep  out;  won't  it,  Mrs.  Morton  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure.  Indeed,  ma'am,  it  is  impossible.  Mr. 
Morton  is  so  very  respectable,  and  his  neighbors  pay  so 
much  attention  to  all  he  does;  and  then,  if  we  have  an 
election  in  the  autumn,  you  see,  ma'am,  he  has  a  great 
stake  in  the  place,  and  is  a  public  character." 

"  That  's  neither  here  nor  there,"  said  Mr.  Morton. 
"But  I  say,  Catherine,  can  your  little  boy  go  into  the 
other  room  for  a  moment  ?  Margaret,  suppose  you  take 
him  and  make  friends." 

Delighted  to  throw  on  her  husband  the  burden  of 
explanation,  which  she  had  originally  meant  to  have  all 
the  importance  of  giving  herself  in  her  most  proper  and 
patronizing  manner,  Mrs.  Morton  twisted  her  fingers 
into  the  boy's  hand,  and,  opening  the  door  that  commu- 
nicated with  the  bedroom,  left  the  brother  and  sister 
alone.     And   then   Mr.    Morton,   with   more   tact   and 


102  NIGHT   AND   MOKNIXG. 

delicacy  than  miglit  have  been  expected  from  him, 
began  to  soften  to  Catherine  the  hardship  of  the  separa- 
tion he  urged.  He  dwelt  principally  on  M'hat  was  best 
for  the  child.  Boys  were  so  brutal  in  their  intercourse 
with  each  other.  He  had  even  thought  it  better  to 
represent  Philip  to  ^Mr.  Plaskwith  as  a  more  distant 
relation  than  he  was;  and  he  begged,  by  the  by,  that 
Catherine  would  tell  Philip  to  take  the  hint.  But  as 
for  Sidney,  sooner  or  later,  he  would  go  to  a  day-school, 

—  have  companions  of  his  own  age ;  if  his  birth  were 
known,  he  would  be  exposed  to  many  mortifications, — 
so  iinich  better,  and  so  very  easy,  to  bring  him  up  as  the 
lawful,  that  is  the  legal  offspring  of  some  distant 
relation. 

"Ard,"  cried  poor  Catherine,  clasping  her  hands, 
"  when  I  am  dead,  is  he  never  to  know  that  I  was  his 
mother  1  " 

The  anguish  of  that  question  thrilled  the  heart  of  the 
listetier.  He  was  affected  below  all  the  surface  that 
worldly  thoughts  and  habits  had  laid,  stratum  by 
stratum,  over  the  humanities  within.  He  threw  his 
arms  round  Catherine,  and  strained  her  to  his  breast, — 

"Xo,  my  sister,  my  poor  sister,  he  shall  know  it 
when  he  is  old  enough  to  understand  and  to  keep  his 
own  secret.  He  shall  know,  too,  how  we  all  loved  and 
prized  you  once;  how  young  you  were,  how  flattered 
and  tempted;  how  you  were  deceived,  for  I  know  that, 

—  on  my  soul  I  do :  I  know  it  was  not  your  fault.  He 
shall  know,  too,  how  fondly  you  loved  your  child,  and 
how  you  sacrificed,  for  his  sake,  the  very  comfort  of 
being  near  him.     He  shall  know  it  all  — all!  " 

"  My  brother  —  my  brother,  I  resign  him :  I  am  con- 
tent. God  reward  you.  I  will  go,  —  go  quickly.  I 
know  you  will  take  care  of  him  now. " 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  103 

"And  you  see,"  resumed  Mr,  Morton,  re-settling 
himself,  and  wiping  his  eyes,  "  it  is  best,  between  you 
and  me,  that  Mrs.  Morton  should  have  her  own  way 
in  this.  She  is  a  very  good  woman,  —  very ;  but  it  's 
prudent  not  to  vex  her.  You  may  come  in  now,  Mrs. 
Morton. " 

Mrs.  Morton  and  Sidney  reappeared. 

"  We  have  settled  it  all,"  said  the  husband.  "  When 
can  we  have  him  1  " 

"Not  to-day,"  said  Mrs.  Koger  Morton;  "you  see, 
ma'am,  we  must  get  his  bed  ready,  and  his  sheets  well 
aired,  —  I  am  very  particular. " 

"Certainly,  certainly.  Will  he  sleep  alone?  —  par- 
don me." 

"  He  shall  have  a  room  to  himself,"  said  Mr.  Morton. 
"Eh,  my  dear?  Next  to  Martha's.  Martha  is  our 
parlor-maid,  —  very  good-natured  girl,  and  fond  of 
children." 

Mrs.  Morton  looked  grave,  thought  a  moment,  and 
said,  "  Yes,  he  can  have  that  room. " 

"  Who  can  have  that  room  ?  "  asked  Sidney,  innocently. 

"  You,  my  dear,"  replied  Mr.  Morton. 

"  And  where  will  mamma  sleep  1  I  must  sleep  near 
mamma." 

"  Mamma  is  going  away,"  said  Catherine  in  a  firm 
voice,  in  which  the  despair  would  only  have  been  felt 
by  the  acute  ear  of  sympathy,  — "  going  away  for  a  little 
time;  but  this  gentleman  and  lady  will  be  very,  very 
kind  to  you. " 

"We  will  do  our  best,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Morton. 

And  as  she  spoke,  a  sudden  light  broke  on  the  boy's 
mind;  he  uttered  a  loud  cry,  broke  from  his  aunt, 
rushed  to  his  mother's  breast,  and  hid  his  face  there, 
sobbing  bitterly. 


104  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"I  am  afraid  he  has  heen  verj'  much  spoiled,"  whis- 
pered Mrs,  Eoger  Morton.  "  I  don't  think  we  need 
stay  longer;  it  will  look  suspicious.  Good  morning, 
ma'am;  we  shall  he  ready  to-morrow." 

"  Good-hy,  Catlierine,"  said  Mr.  Morton;  and  he 
added ,  as  he  kissed  her ;  "  be  of  good  heart,  I  will  come 
up  by  myself  and  spend  the  evening  with  you." 

It  was  the  night  after  this  interview.  Sidney  had 
gone  to  liis  new  home;  they  had  been  all  kind  to  him, 
—  Mr.  Morton,  the  children,  Martha  the  parlor-maid. 
Mrs.  Roger  herself  had  given  him  a  large  slice  of  bread 
and  jam,  but  had  looked  gloomy  all  the  rest  of  the 
evening,  because,  like  a  dog  in  a  strange  place,  he  re- 
fused to  eat.  His  little  heart  was  full,  and  his  eyes, 
swimming  with  tears,  were  turned  at  every  moment  to 
the  door.  But  he  did  not  show  the  violent  grief  that 
might  have  been  expected.  His  very  desolation,  amidst 
the  unfamiliar  faces,  awed  and  chilled  him.  But  when 
Martha  took  him  to  bed,  and  undressed  him,  and  he 
knelt  down  to  say  his  prayers,  and  came  to  the  words, 
"  Pray  God  bless  dear  mamma,  and  make  me  a  good 
child,"  his  heart  could  contain  itself  no  longer,  and  he 
sobbed  with  a  passion  that  alarmed  the  good-natured  ser- 
vant. She  had  been  used,  however,  to  children,  and 
she  soothed  and  caressed  him,  and  told  him  of  all  the 
nice  things  he  would  do,  and  the  nice  toys  he  would 
have;  and  at  last,  silenced,  if  not  convinced,  his  eyes 
closed,  and,  the  tears  yet  wet  on  their  lashes,  he  fell 
asleep. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  Catherine  should  return 
home  that  night  by  a  late  coach,  which  left  the  town  at 
twelve.  It  was  already  past  eleven.  Mrs.  Morton 
had  retired  to  bed;  and  her  husband,  who  had,  accord- 
ing to  his  wont,  lingered  behind  to  smoke  a  cigar  over 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  105 

his  last  glass  of  brandy-and-water,  had  just  thrown  aside 
the  stump,  and  was  winding  up  his  watch,  when  he 
heard  a  low  tap  at  his  window.  He  stood  mute  and 
alarmed,  for  the  window  opened  on  a  back  lane,  dark 
and  solitary  at  night,  and,  from  the  heat  of  the  weather 
the  iron-cased  shutter  was  not  yet  closed ;  the  sound  was 
repeated,  and  he  heard  a  faint  voice.  He  glanced  at  the 
poker  and  then  cautiously  moved  to  the  window  and 
looked  forth,  "  Who  's  there  1  " 

"  It  is  T,  —  it  is  Catherine!  I  cannot  go  without  see- 
ing my  boy.     T  must  see  him  — I  must,  once  more!  " 

"  My  dear  sister,  the  place  is  shut  up,  — it  is  impos- 
sible. God  bless  me,  if  Mrs.  Morton  should  hear 
you!" 

"  I  have  walked  before  this  window  for  hours  ,■  I 
have  waited  till  all  is  hushed  in  your  house,  till  no 
one,  not  even  a  menial,  need  see  the  mother  stealing  to 
the  bed  of  her  child.  Brother!  by  the  memory  of  our 
own  mother,  I  command  you  to  let  me  look,  for  the  last 
time,  upon  my  boy's  face!  " 

As  Catherine  said  this,  standing  in  that  lonely  street, 
—  darkness  and  solitude  below,  God  and  the  stars 
above,  —  there  was  about  her  a  majesty  which  awed  the 
listener.  Though  she  was  so  near,  her  features  were  not 
very  clearly  visible;  but  her  attitude,  — her  hand  raised 
aloft,  —  the  outline  of  her  wasted,  but  still  commanding 
form,  were  more  impressive  from  the  shadowy  dimness 
of  the  air. 

"Come  round,  Catherine,"  said  Mr.  Morton,  after  a 
pause;  "  I  will  admit  you." 

He  shut  the  window,  stole  to  the  door,  unbarred  it 
gently,  and  admitted  his  visitor.  He  bade  her  follow 
him,  and,  sliading  the  light  with  his  hand,  crept  up 
the  stairs.     Catherine's  step  made  no  sound. 


106  NIGHT   AND    MOllXIXG. 

They  passed,  unmolested  and  unheard,  tlie  room  in 
which  the  wife  was  drowsily  reading,  according  to  her 
custom,  before  she  tied  her  nightcap  and  got  into  bed, 
a  chapter  in  some  pious  book.  They  ascended  to  the 
chamber  where  Sidney  lay;  Morton  opened  the  door 
cautiously,  and  stood  at  the  threshold,  so  holding  the 
candle  that  its  light  might  not  wake  the  child,  though 
it  sufficed  to  guide  Catherine  to  the  bed.  The  room 
Avas  small,  perhaps  close,  but  scrupulously  clean;  for 
cleanliness  was  Mrs.  Koger  Morton's  capital  virtue. 
The  mother,  with  a  tremulous  hand,  drew  aside  the 
white  curtains,  and  checked  her  sobs  as  she  gazed  on 
the  young,  quiet  face  that  was  turned  towards  her.  She 
gazed  some  moments  in  passionate  silence ;  who  shall 
say,  beneath  that  silence,  wliat  thoughts,  what  prayers, 
moved  and  stirred?  Then  bending  down,  Avith  pale, 
convulsive  lips,  she  kissed  the  little  hands  thrown  so 
listlessly  on  the  coverlid  of  the  pillow  on  which  the 
head  lay.  After  this,  she  turned  her  face  to  her  brother, 
with  a  mute  appeal  in  her  glance,  took  a  ring  from  her 
finger,  —  a  ring  that  had  never  till  then  left  it,  the  ring 
which  Philip  Beaufort  had  placed  there  the  day  after 
that  child  was  born.  "  Let  him  wear  this  round  his 
neck,"  said  she,  and  stopped,  lest  she  should  sob  aloud, 
and  disturb  the  boy.  In  that  gift,  she  felt  as  if  she 
invoked  the  father's  spirit  to  watch  over  the  friendless 
or])han ;  and  then,  pressing  together  her  own  hands 
firmly,  as  we  do  in  some  paroxysm  of  great  pain,  she 
turned  from  the  room,  descended  the  stairs,  gained  the 
street,  and  muttered  to  her  brother,  "I  am  happy  now; 
peace  be  on  these  thresholds!  "  Before  he  could  answer 
she  was  gone. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  107 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Thus  things  are  strangely  wrought, 

While  joyful  May  doth  last ; 
Take  May  in  time,  —  when  May  is  gone 
The  pleasant  time  is  past. 

Richard  Edwards  : 
From  the  Paradise  of  Dainty  Devices. 

It  was  that  period  of  the  year  when,  to  those  who  look 
on  the  surface  of  society,  London  wears  its  most  radiant 
smile;  when  shops  are  gayest  and  trade  most  brisk; 
when  down  the  thoroughfares  roll  and  glitter  the  coiint- 
less  streams  of  indolent  and  voluptuous  life ;  when  the 
upper  class  spend,  and  the  middle  class  make;  when 
the  ball-room  is  the  market  of  beauty,  and  the  club- 
house the  school  for  scandal ;  when  the  hells  yawn  for 
their  prey,  and  opera-singers  and  fiddlers  —  creatures 
hatched  from  gold,  as  the  dung-flies  from  the  dung  — 
swarm,  and  buzz,  and  fatten,  roiuid  the  hide  of  the 
gentle  public.  In  the  cant  phrase,  it  was  "the  London 
season."  And  happy,  take  it  altogether,  happy  above 
the  rest  of  the  year,  even  for  the  hapless,  is  that  period 
of  ferment  and  fever.  It  is  not  the  season  for  duns,  and 
the  debtor  glides  about  with  a  less  anxious  eye ;  and 
the  weather  is  warm,  and  the  vagrant  sleeps,  unfrozen, 
under  the  starlit  portico;  and  the  beggar  thrives,  and 
the  thief  rejoices,  —  for  the  rankness  of  the  civilization 
has  superfluities  clutched  by  all.  And  out  of  the  gen- 
eral corniption,  things  sordid  and  things  miserable  crawl 
forth  to  bask  in  the  common  sunshine, — things  that 
perish  when  the  first  autumn  winds  whistle  along  the 


lOS  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

melancholy  city.  It  is  the  gay  time  for  the  heir  and 
tlie  beauty,  and  the  statesman  and  the  lawyer,  and  the 
mother  with  her  young  daughters,  and  the  artist  with 
his  fresh  pictures,  and  the  poet  with  his  new  hook. 
It  is  the  gay  time,  too,  for  the  starved  journey-man,  and 
the  ragged  outcast  that,  with  long  stride  and  patient 
eyes,  follows  for  pence  the  equestrian,  who  bids  him  go 
and  be  d — d,  in  vain.  It  is  the  gay  time  for  the  painted 
harlot  in  a  crimson  pelisse ;  and  a  gay  time  for  the  old 
hag  that  loiters  about  the  thresholds  of  the  gin-shop, 
to  buy  back,  in  a  draught,  the  dreams  of  departed 
youth.  It  is  gay,  in  fine,  as  the  fulness  of  a  vast 
city  is  ever  gay ;  for  vice  as  for  innocence,  for  poverty 
as  for  wealth.  And  the  wheels  of  every  single  destiny 
wheel  on  the  merrier,  no  matter  whether  they  are  bound 
to  heaven  or  to  hell. 

Arthur  Beaufort,  the  young  heir,  was  at  his  father's 
house.  He  was  fresh  from  Oxford,  where  he  had  al- 
ready discovered  that  learning  is  not  better  than  house 
and  land.  Since  the  new  prospects  opened  to  him, 
Arthur  Beaufort  was  greatly  changed.  Naturally  stu- 
dious and  prudent,  had  his  fortunes  remained  what  they 
had  been  before  his  uncle's  death,  he  would  probably 
have  become  a  laborious  and  distinguished  man.  But 
though  his  abilities  were  good,  he  had  not  those  rest- 
less impulses  which  belong  to  genius,  —  often  not  only 
its  glory  but  its  curse.  The  golden  rod  cast  his  ener- 
gies asleep  at  once.  Good-natured  to  a  fault,  and  some- 
what vacillating  in  character,  he  adopted  the  manner 
and  the  code  of  the  rich  young  idlers  who  were  his 
equals  at  college.  He  became,  like  them,  careless, 
extravagant,  and  fond  of  pleasure.  This  change,  if  it 
deteriorated  his  mind,  improved  his  exterior.  It  was  a 
change  that  could   not  but  please  women,   and   of   all 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  109 

women  his  mother  the  most.  Mrs.  Beaufort  was  a  lady 
of  high  birth;  and,  in  marrying  her,  llohert  had  lioped 
much  from  the  interest  of  her  connections;  but  a  change 
in  the  ministry  had  tlirowu  her  rehitions  out  of  power; 
and,  beyond  her  dowry,  he  obtained  no  worldly  advan- 
tage with  the  lady  of  his  mercenary  choice.  Mrs.  Beau- 
fort was  a  woman  whom  a  word  or  two  will  describe. 
She  was  thoroughly  commonplace,  —  neither  bad  nor 
good,  neither  clever  nor  silly.  She  was  what  is  called 
well-bred,  —  that  is,  languid,  silent,  perfectly  dressed, 
and  insipid.  Of  her  two  children,  Arthur  was  almost 
the  exclusive  favorite,  especially  after  he  became  the 
heir  to  such  brilliant  fortunes.  For  she  was  so  much 
the  mechanical  creature  of  the  world,  that  even  her 
affection  was  warm  or  cold  in  proportion  as  the  world 
shone  on  it.  Without  being  absolutely  in  love  with 
her  husband,  she  liked  him,  —  they  suited  each  other; 
and  (in  spite  of  all  the  temptations  that  had  beset  her 
in  their  earlier  years,  for  she  had  been  esteemed  a 
beauty,  and  lived,  as  worldly  people  must  do,  in  circles 
where  examples  of  unpunished  gallantry  are  numerous 
and  contagious)  her  conduct  had  ever  been  scrupulously 
correct.  She  had  little  or  no  feeling  for  misfortunes 
with  which  she  had  never  come  into  contact;  for  those 
with  which  she  had,  —  such  as  the  distresses  of  younger 
sons,  or  the  errors  of  fashionable  women,  or  the  disap- 
pointments of  "a  proper  ambition," — she  had  more 
sympathy  than  might  have  been  supposed,  and  touched 
on  them  with  all  the  tact  of  well-bred  charity  and  lady- 
like forbearance.  Thus,  though  she  was  regarded  as  a 
strict  person  in  point  of  moral  decorum,  yet  in  society 
she  was  popular,  —  as  women,  at  once  pretty  and  inoffen- 
sive, generally  are. 

To  do  Mrs.  Beaufort  justice,  she  had  not  been  privy 


110  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

to  tlie  letter  her  husband  wrote  to  Catherine,  although  not 
wholly  innocent  of  it.  The  fact  is,  that  Robert  had 
never  mentioned  to  her  the  peculiar  circumstances  that 
uaade  Catherine  an  exception  from  ordinary  rules,  —  the 
generous  propositions  of  his  brother  to  him  the  night 
before  his  death;  and,  whatever  his  incredulity  as  to 
the  alleged  private  marriage,  the  perfect  loyalty  and 
faith  that  Catherine  had  borne  to  the  deceased,  he  had 
merely  observed,  "  I  must  do  something,  I  suppose,  for 
that  woman :  she  very  nearly  entrapped  my  poor  brother 
into  marrying  her;  and  he  would  then,  for  what  I  know, 
have  cut  Arthur  out  of  the  estates.  Still,  I  must  do 
something  for  her,  —  eh  1  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.     What  was  she  1  —  very  low  1  " 

"  A  tradesman's  daughter." 

"  The  children  should  be  provided  for  according  to 
the  rank  of  the  mother;  that 's  the  general  rule  in  such 
cases;  and  the  mother  should  have  about  the  same  pro- 
vision she  might  have  looked  for  if  she  had  married  a 
tradesman  and  been  left  a  widow.  I  daresay  she  was  a 
very  artful  kind  of  person,  and  don't  deserve  anything; 
but  it  is  always  handsomer,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world, 
to  go  by  the  general  rules  people  lay  down  as  to  money 
matters. " 

So  spoke  Mrs.  Beaufort.  She  concluded  her  husband 
had  settled  the  matter,  and  never  again  recurred  to  it. 
Indeed,  she  had  never  liked  the  late  Mr.  Beaufort, 
whom  she  considered  mauvais  ton. 

In  the  breakfast-room  at  Mr.  Beaufort's,  the  mother 
and  son  were  seated;  the  former  at  work,  the  latter 
lounging  by  the  window:  they  were  not  alone.  In  a 
large  elbow-chair  sat  a  middle-aged  man,  listening,  or 
appearing  to  listen,  to  the  prattle  of  a  beautiful  little 
girl,  —  Arthur   Beaufort's   sister.     This   man  was   not 


NIGHT   AND   MOUNINO.  Ill 

handsome,  but  there  was  a  certain  elegance  in  his  air, 
and  a  certain  intelligence  in  his  coimtenance,  which 
made  his  appearance  pleasing.  He  had  that  kind  of  eye 
which  is  often  seen  with  red  hair,  —  an  eye  of  a  reddish 
hazel,  with  very  long  lashes;  the  eyebrows  were  dark 
and  clearly  defined ;  and  the  short  hair  showed  to  ad- 
vantage the  contour  of  a  small,  well-shaped  head.  His 
features  were  irregular;  the  complexion  had  been  san- 
guine, but  was  now  faded,  and  a  yellow  tinge  mingled 
with  the  red.  His  face  was  more  wrinkled,  especially 
round  the  eyes  —  which,  when  he  laughed,  were  scarcely 
visible  —  than  is  usual  even  in  men  ten  years  older. 
But  his  teeth  were  still  of  a  dazzling  whiteness;  nor 
was  there  any  trace  of  decayed  health  in  his  counte- 
nance. He  seemed  one  who  had  lived  hard,  but  who 
had  much  yet  left  in  the  lamp  wherewith  to  feed  the 
wick.  At  the  first  glance  he  appeared  slight  as  he 
lolled  listlessly  in  his  chair,  —  almost  fragile.  But,  at  a 
nearer  examination,  you  perceived  that,  in  spite  of  the 
small  extremities  and  delicate  bones,  his  frame  was 
constitutionally  strong.  Without  being  broad  in  the 
shoulders,  he  was  exceedingly  deep  in  the  chest,  — • 
deeper  than  men  who  seemed  giants  by  his  side;  and 
his  gestures  had  the  ease  of  one  accustomed  to  an  active 
life.  He  had,  indeed,  been  celebrated  in  his  youth 
for  his  skill  in  athletic  exercises;  but  a  wound,  received 
in  a  duel  many  years  ago,  had  rendered  him  lame  for 
life,  —  a  misfortune  which  interfered  with  his  former 
habits,  and  was  said  to  have  soured  his  temper.  This 
personage,  whose  position  and  character  will  be  de- 
scribed hereafter,  was  Lord  Lilburne,  the  brother  of 
Mrs.  Beaufort. 

"  So,   Camilla,"  said  Lord   Lilburne   to  his  niece,  as 
carelessly,  not  fondly,  he  stroked  down  her  glossy  ring- 


112  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

lets,  "you  don't  like  Berkeley  Square  as  you  did 
Gloucester  Place. " 

"Oh,  no!  not  half  so  much!  You  see  I  never  walk 
out  in  the  fields,^  nor  make  daisy-chains  at  Primrose 
Hill.  I  don't  know  what  mamma  means,"  added  the 
child,  in  a  whisper,  "  in  saying  we  are  better  off  here." 

Lord  Lilburne  smiled,  but  the  smile  was  a  half  sneer. 

"You  will  know  quite  soon  enough,  Camilla;  the 
■understandings  of  young  ladies  grow  up  very  quickly 
on  this  side  of  Oxford  Street.  Well,  Arthur,  and  what 
are  your  plans  to-day  1  " 

"Why,"  said  Arthur,  suppressing  a  yawn,  "I  have 
promised  to  ride  out  Avith  a  friend  of  mine,  to  see  a 
horse  that  is  for  sale,  somewhere  in  the  suburbs." 

As  he  spoke,  Arthur  rose,  stretched  himself,  looked 
in  the  glass,  and  then  glanced  impatiently  at  the 
■window. 

"  He  ought  to  be  here  by  this  time. " 

"He!  who?"  said  Lord  Lilburne,  "the  horse  or  the 
other  animal,  —  I  mean  the  friend?  " 

"The  friend,"  answered  Arthur,  smiling;  but  color- 
ing while  he  smiled,  for  he  half  suspected  the  quiet 
sneer  of  his  uncle. 

"Who  is  your  friend,  Arthur?  "  asked  Mrs.  Beaufort, 
looking  up  from  her  work. 

"  AYatson,  an  Oxford  man.  By  the  by,  I  must  intro- 
duce him  to  you." 

"Watson!  what  Watson;  what  family  of  Watson? 
Some  Watsons  are  good  and  some  are  bad,"  said  Mrs. 
Beaufort,  musingly. 

"  Then  they  are  very  unlike  the  rest  of  mankind," 
observed  Lord  Lilburne,  dryly. 

"Oh!  my  Watson  is  a  very  gentlemanlike  person,  I 

^  Now  the  Regent's  Park. 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  113 

assure  you,"  said  Arthur,  half  laughing,  "  and  you  need 
not  be  ashamed  of  him."  Then,  rather  desirous  of 
turning  the  conversation,  he  continued,  "  So  my  father 
will  be  back  from  Beaufort  Court  to-day. " 

"  Yes ;  he  writes  in  excellent  spirits.  He  says  the 
rents  will  bear  raising  at  least  ten  per  cent,  and  that  the 
house  will  not  require  much  repair." 

Here  Arthur  threw  open  the  window. 

"Ah,  Watson!  how  are  you?  How  d' ye  do,  Mars- 
den?  Danvers,  too!  that's  capital!  the  more  the  mer- 
rier! I  will  be  down  in  an  instant.  But  would  you 
not  rather  come  in  ?  " 

"  An  agreeable  inundation,"  murmured  Lord  Lilburne. 
"  Three  at  a  time :  he  takes  your  house  for  Trinity 
College." 

A  loud,  clear  voice,  however,  declined  the  invitation; 
the  horses  were  heard  pawing  without.  Arthur  seized 
his  hat  and  whip,  and  glanced  to  his  mother  and  uncle, 
smilingly.  "  Good-by!  I  shall  be  out  till  dinner. 
Kiss  me,  my  pretty  'Milly !  "  And  as  his  sister,  who 
had  run  to  the  window,  sickening  for  the  fresh  air  and 
exercise  he  was  about  to  enjoy,  now  turned  to  him 
wistful  and  mournful  eyes,  the  kind-hearted  young 
man  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  whispered  while  he 
kissed  her,  — 

"  Get  up  early  to-morrow,  and  we  '11  have  such  a  nice 
walk  together." 

Arthur  was  gone ;  his  mother's  gaze  had  followed  his 
young  and  graceful  figure  to  the  door. 

"  Own  that  he  is  handsome,  Lilburne.  May  I  not  say 
more,  —  has  he  not  the  proper  air?  " 

"  My  dear  sister,  your  son  will  be  rich.  As  for  hia 
air,  he  has  plenty  of  airs,  but  wants  graces." 

"  Then  who  could  polish  him  like  yourself?  " 

VOL.  I.  —  8 


114  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  Probabl.y  no  ono.  But  had  I  a  son .  —  which  Heaven 
forbid!  —  he  should  not  have  me  for  his  Mentor,  Place 
a  young  man  (go  and  shut  the  door,  Camilla!)  be- 
tween two  vices,  women  and  gambling,  if  you  want  to 
polish  him  into  the  fashionable  smoothness,  Entre 
nous,  the  varnish  is  a  little  expensive!  " 

Mrs,  Beaufort  sighed.  Lord  Lilburne  smiled.  He 
had  a  strange  pleasure  in  hurting  the  feelings  of  others. 
Besides,  he  disliked  youth:  in  his  own  youth  he  had 
enjoyed  so  much  that  he  grew  sour  when  he  saw  the 
young. 

Meanwhile  Arthur  Beaufort  and  his  friends,  careless 
of  the  warmth  of  the  day,  were  laughing  merrily,  and 
talking  gayly,  as  they  made  for  the  suburb  of  H . 

"  It  is  an  out-of-the-way  place  for  a  horse,  too,"  said 
Sir  Harry  Danvers. 

"But  I  assure  you,"  insisted  Mr.  Watson,  earnestly, 
"  that  my  groom,  who  is  a  capital  judge,  says  it  is  the 
cleverest  hack  he  ever  mounted.  It  has  won  several 
trotting  matches.  It  belonged  to  a  sporting  tradesman, 
now  done  up.      The  advertisement  caught  me." 

"Well,"  said  Arthur,  gayly,  "  at  all  events,  the  ride 
is  delightful.  What  weather!  You  must  all  dine 
■with  me  at  Richmond  to-morrow,  — we  will  row  back." 

"  And  a  little  chicken-hazard,  at  the  M •,  after- 
wards," said  Mr.  Marsden,  who  was  an  elder,  not  a 
better  man  than  the  rest,  —  a  handsome,  saturnine  man, 
who  had  just  left  Oxford,  and  was  already  known  on. 
the  turf. 

"  Anything  you  please,"  said  Arthur,  making  his  horse 
curvet. 

Oh,  Mr.  Ptobert  Beaufort!  Mr,  Robert  Beaufort! 
could  your  prudent,  scheming,  worldly  heart  but  feel 
what  devil's  tricks  your  wealth  was  playing  with  a  son 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  115 

who  if  poor  had  been  the  pride  of  the  Beauforts !  On 
one  side  of  our  pieces  of  gokl  we  see  the  saint  trampling 
down  the  dragon, — false  emblem!  Reverse  it  on  the 
coin!  In  the  real  use  of  the  gold,  it  is  the  dragon  who 
tramples  down  the  saint!  But  on,  on!  the  day  is  bright 
and  your  companions  merry;  make  the  best  of  your 
green  years,  Arthur  Beaufort. 

The  young  men  had  just  entered  the  suburb  of  H , 

and  were  spurring  on  four  abreast  at  a  canter.  At  that 
time  an  old  man,  feeling  his  way  before  him  with  a 
stick,  — for  though  not  quite  blind,  he  saw  imperfectly, 

—  was  crossing  the  road.  Arthur  and  his  friends,  in  loud 
converse,  did  not  observe  the  poor  passenger.  He 
stopped  abruptly,  for  his  ear  caught  the  sound  of  danger, 

—  it  was  too  late:  Mr,  Marsden's  horse,  hard-mouthed, 
and  high-stepping,  came  full  against  him.  Mr.  Mars- 
den  looked  down,  — 

"  Hang  these  old  men!  always  in  the  way,"  said  he, 
plaintively,  and  in  the  tone  of  a  much-injured  person, 
and,  with  that,  Mr.  Marsden  rode  on.  But  the  others, 
who  were  younger,  —  who  were  not  gamblers,  who  were 
not  yet  grinded  down  into  stone  by  the  world's  wheels, 

—  the  others  halted.  Arthur  Beaufort  leaped  from  his 
horse,  and  the  old  man  was  already  in  his  arms;  but 
he  was  severely  hurt.  The  blood  trickled  from  his  fore- 
head; he  complained  of  pain  in  his  side  and  limbs, 

"  Lean  on  me,  my  poor  fellow!  I  will  take  you  home. 
Do  you  live  far  off?  " 

"  Not  many  yards.  This  would  not  have  happened 
if  I  had  had  my  dog.  Never  mind,  sir,  go  your  way. 
It  is  only  an  old  man,  — what  of  that?  I  wish  I  had 
my  dog." 

"I  will  join  you,"  said  Arthur  to  his  friends;  "my 
groom  has  the  direction,     I  will  just  take  the  poor  old 


116  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

man  home,  and  send  for  a  surgeon.  I  shall  not  bo 
long." 

"  So  like  you,  Beaufort:  the  best  fellow  in  the 
world!"  said  ]\Ir.  Watson,  with  some  emotion.  "And 
there  's  Marsden  positively  dismounted,  and  looking  at 
his  horse's  knees  as  if  they  could  be  hurt!  Here  's  a 
sovereign  for  j'^ou,  my  man." 

"And  here's  another,"  said  Sir  Harry;  "so  that's 
settled.  AVell,  you  will  join  us,  Beaufort?  You  see 
the  yard  yonder?  We'll  wait  twenty  minutes  for  you. 
Come  on,  Watson." 

The  old  man  had  not  picked  up  the  sovereigns  thrown 
at  his  feet,  neither  had  he  thanked  the  donors.  And 
on  his  countenance  there  was  a  sour,  querulous,  resentful 
expression. 

"  Must  a  man  be  a  beggar  because  he  is  run  over,  or 
because  he  is  half  blind?"  said  he,  turning  s  dim, 
wandering  eyes  painfully  towards  Arthur.  "  Well,  I 
wish  I  had  my  dog!  " 

"  I  will  supply  his  place,"  said  Arthur,  soothingly. 
"  Come,  lean  on  me,  —  heavier;  that 's  right.  You  are 
not  so  bad,  —  eh?  " 

«  Urn !  —  the  sovereigns  I  —  it  is  wicked  to  leave  them 
in  the  kennel!  " 

Arthur  smiled.     "  Here  they  are,  sir." 

The  old  man  slid  the  coins  into  his  pocket,  and 
Arthur  continued  to  talk,  though  he  got  but  short  an- 
swers, and  those  only  in  the  way  of  direction,  till  at 
last  the  old  man  stopped  at  the  door  of  a  small  house, 
near  the  churchyard. 

After  twice  ringing  the  bell,  the  door  was  opened  by 
a  middle-aged  woman,  wliose  appearance  was  above  that 
of  a  common  menial,  —  dressed,  somewhat  gayly  for  her 
years,  in  a  cap  seated  very  far  back  on  a  black  touj)et, 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  117 

and  decorated  with  red  ribbons,  an  apron  made  out  of  an 
Indian  silk  handkerchief,  a  puce-colorcd  sarcenet  gown, 
lilack  silk  stockings,  long  gilt  earrings,  and  a  watch  at 
her  girdle. 

"  Bless  us,  and  save  us,  sir!     What  has  happened?  " 
exclaimed  this  worthy  personage,  holding  up  her  hands. 

"Pish!  I  am  faint:  let  me  in.  I  don't  want  your  aid 
any  more,  sir.     Thank  you.     Good-day!" 

Not  discouraged  by  this  farewell,  the  churlish  tone 
of  which  fell  harmless  on  the  invincibly  sweet  temper 
of  Arthur,  the  young  man  continued  to  assist  the  sufferer 
along  the  narrow  passage  into  a  little  old-fashioned  par- 
lor; and  no  sooner  was  the  owner  deposited  on  his  worm- 
eaten  leather-chair  than  he  fainted  away.  On  reaching 
the  house,  Arthur  had  sent  his  servant  (who  had  fol- 
lowed him  with  the  horses)  for  the  nearest  surgeon ;  and 
while  the  woman  was  still  employed,  after  taking  oflf 
the  sufferer's  cravat,  in  burning  feathers  under  his  nose, 
there  was  heard  a  sharp  rap  and  a  shrill  ring.  Arthur 
opened  the  door,  and  admitted  a  smart  little  man  in 
nankeen  breeches  and  gaiters.  He  bustled  into  the 
room. 

"  What 's  this  —  bad  accident  —  um  —  um!  Sad 
thing,  very  sad.  Open  the  window.  A  glass  of  water, 
—  a  towel.  So,  so:  I  see,  I  see;  no  fracture, — con- 
tusion. Help  him  off  with  his  coat.  Another  chair, 
ma'am;  put  up  his  poor  legs.  What  age  is  he,  ma'am] 
Sixty -eight!  Too  old  to  bleed.  Thank  you.  How 
is  it,  sir?  Poorly,  to  be  sure:  will  be  comfortable 
presently,  —  faintish  still?     Soon  put  all  to  rights." 

"Tray!  Tray!  Where's  Tray?  Where's  my  dog, 
Mrs.  Boxer  ?  " 

"Lord,  sir,  what  do  you  want  with  your  dog  nowl 
He  is  in  the  back -yard. " 


118  XIGHT   AND   MOItNIXG. 

"  And  what  business  has  my  dog  in  the  back-yard  ?  " 
almost  screamed  the  sufferer,  in  accents  that  denoted 
no  diminution  of  vigor.  "  I  thought  as  soon  as  my 
back  was  turned  my  dog  would  be  ill-used!  Why  did 
I  go  without  my  dog?  Let  in  my  dog  directly,  Mrs. 
Boxer!  " 

"  All  right,  you  see,  sir,"  said  the  apothecary,  turning 
to  Beaufort;  "  no  cause  for  alarm.  Very  comforting  that 
little  passion;  does  him  good,  —  sets  one's  mind  easy. 
How  did  it  happen?  Ah,  I  understand!  knocked 
down,  —  might  have  been  worse.  Your  groom  (sharp 
fellow!)  explained  in  a  trice,  sir.  Tliought  it  was  my 
old  friend  here  by  the  description.  Worthy  man ; 
settled  here  a  many  year;  very  odd,  —  eccentric"  (this 
in  a  Avhisper).  "  Came  off  instantly:  just  at  dinner,  — 
cold  lamb  and  salad.  'Mrs.  Perkins,'  says  I,  '  if  any 
one  calls  for  me,  I  shall  be  at  No.  4  Prospect  Place.* 
Your  servant  observed  the  address,  sir.  Oh,  very  sharp 
fellow !  See  how  the  old  gentleman  takes  to  his  dog : 
fine  little  dog,  —  what  a  stump  of  a  tail !  Deal  of  prac- 
tice, expect  two  accouchements  every  hour.  Hot 
weather  for  childbirth.  So  says  I  to  Mrs.  Perkins,  *  If 
Mrs.  Plummer  is  taken,  or  Mrs.  Everat,  or  if  old  Mr. 
Grub  has  another  fit,  send  off  at  once  to  Ko.  4.'  Med- 
ical men  should  be  always  in  the  way,  —  that's  my 
maxim.     Xow,  sir,  where  do  you  feel  the  pain  ?  " 

"  In  my  ears,  sir. " 

"  Bless  me,  that  looks  bad.  How  long  have  you  felt 
it?" 

"Ever  since  you  have  been  in  the  room." 

"Oh!  I  take.  Ha!  ha!  —  very  eccentric,  —  very!" 
muttered  tlie  apothecary,  a  little  disconcerted.  "  Well, 
let  him  lie  down,  ma'am.  I  '11  send  him  a  little  quiet- 
ing draught  to  be  taken  directly,  —  pill  at  night,  aperi- 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  119 

ent  in  the  morning.  If  wanted,  send  for  me,  —  always 
to  be  found.  Bless  me,  that's  my  boy  Bob's  ring! 
Please  to  open  the  door,  ma'am.  Know  his  ring,  — 
very  peculiar  knack  of  his  own.  Lay  ten  to  one  it  is 
Mrs.  Plummer,  or,  perliaps,  Mrs.  Everat,  —  her  ninth 
child  in  eight  years;  in  the  grocery  line.  A  woman 
in  a  thousand,  sir!  " 

Here  a  thin  boy,  with  very  short  coat-sleeves,  and 
very  large  hands,  burst  into  the  room  with  his  mouth 
open. 

"Sir,  Mr.  Perkins,  sir!" 

"I  know,  I  know,  —  coming.  Mrs.  Plummer  or 
Mrs.  Everat?" 

"  No,  sir;  it  be  the  poor  lady  at  Mrs.  Lacy's;  she  be 
taken  desperate.  Mrs.  Lacy's  girl  has  just  been  over 
to  the  shop,  and  made  me  run  here  to  you,  sir." 

"Mrs.  Lacy's!  oh,  I  know.  Poor  Mrs.  Morton! 
Bad  case,  very  bad,  —  must  be  off.  Keep  him  quiet, 
ma'am.  Good-day!  Look  in  to-morrow,  — nine 
o'clock.  Put  a  little  lint  with  the  lotion  on  the  head, 
ma'am.     Mrs.  Morton!     Ah!  bad  job  that." 

Here  the  apothecary  had  shuffled  himself  off  to  the 
street-door,  when  Arthur  laid  his  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Mrs.  Morton !  Did  you  say  Morton,  sir  ?  What 
kind  of  a  person,  —  is  she  very  ill  1  " 

"  Hopeless  case,  sir,  —  general  break-up.  Kice 
woman,  quite  the  lady,  —  known  better  days,  I  'm 
sure." 

"  Has  she  any  children,  sons?  " 

"  Two ;  both  away  now ;  fine  lads,  —  quite  wrapped 
up  in  them,  youngest  especially." 

"  Good  heavens!  it  must  be  she,  —  ill,  and  dying,  and 
destitute,  perhaps,"  exclaimed  Arthur,  with  real  and  deep 
feeling;  "  I  will  go  with  you,  sir.     I  fancy  that  I  know 


120  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

this  lady,  —  that  "  (he  added  generously)  **  I  am  related 
to  her." 

"  Do  you  1  —  glad  to  hear  it.  Come  along  then ;  she 
ought  to  have  some  one  near  her  besides  servants,  —  not 
but  what  Jenny,  the  maid,  is  uncommonly  kind.  Dr. 
,  who  attends  her  sometimes,  said  to  me,  says  he, 

*  It  is  the  mind,  Mr.  Perkins;  I  wish  we  could  get 
back  her  boys. '  " 

"  And  where  are  they  ?  " 

"  'Prenticed  out,  I  fancy.     Master  Sidney  —  " 

"Sidney!" 

"Ah!  that  was  his  name, — pretty  name.  D'ye 
know  Sir  Sidney  Smith?  —  extraordinary  man,  sir! 
Master  Sidney  was  a  beautiful  child,  —  quite  spoiled. 
She  always  fancied  him  ailing,  —  always  sending  for 
me.  '  Mr.  Perkins,'  said  she,  '  there  's  something  the 
matter  with  my  child;  I  'm  sure  there  is,  though  he 
won't  own  it.  He  has  lost  his  appetite,  — had  a  head- 
ache last  night.'     *  Nothing  the  matter,  ma'am,'  says  I, 

*  wish  you  'd  think  more  of  yourself. '  These  mothers 
are  silly,  anxious,  poor  creatures.  Nater,  sir,  nater, — • 
wonderful  thing,  —  nater!     Here  we  are." 

And  the  apothecary  knocked  at  the  private  door  of  a 
milliner  and  hosier's  shop. 


NIGHT   AND   MOKNING.  121 


CHAPTER  X. 

Thy  child  shall  live,  and  I  will  see  it  nourished.  —  Titus  Andronicus. 

As  might  be  expected,  the  excitement  and  fatigue  of 
Catherine's  journey  to  N had  considerably  accel- 
erated the  progress  of  disease.  And  when  she  reached 
home,  and  looked  round  the  cheerless  rooms,  all  solitary, 
all  hushed,  —  Sidney  gone,  gone  from  her  forever,  she 
felt,  indeed,  as  if  the  last  reed  on  which  she  had  leaned 
was  broken,  and  her  business  upon  earth  was  done. 
Catherine  was  not  condemned  to  absolute  poverty,  —  the 
poverty  which  grinds  and  gnaws,  the  poverty  of  rags 
and  famine.  She  had  still  left  nearly  half  of  such 
portion  of  the  little  capital,  realized  by  the  sale  of  her 
trinkets,  as  had  escaped  the  clutch  of  the  law;  and 
her  brother  had  forced  into  her  hands  a  note  for  £20, 
"with  an  assurance  that  the  same  sum  should  be  paid 
to  her  half-yearly.  Alas!  there  was  little  chance  of 
her  needing  it  again!  She  was  not,  then,  in  want  of 
means  to  procure  the  common  comforts  of  life.  But 
now  a  new  passion  had  entered  into  her  breast,  — tlie 
passion  of  the  miser;  she  wished  to  hoard  every  six- 
pence as  some  little  provision  for  her  children.  What 
was  the  use  of  her  feeding  a  lamp  nearly  extinguished, 
and  which  was  fated  to  be  soon  broken  up  and  cast 
amidst  the  vast  lumber-house  of  death?  She  would 
willingly  have  removed  into  a  more  homely  lodging, 
but  the  servant  of  the  house  had  been  so  fond  of  Sidney, 
—  so  kind  to  him.     She  clung  to  one  familiar  face  on 


122  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

■vvliich  there  seemed  to  live  the  reflection  of  her  child's. 
But  she  relinquished  the  first  floor  for  the  second ;  and 
there,  day  by  day,  she  felt  her  eyes  grow  heavier  and 
heavier  beneath  the  clouds  of  the  last  sleep.  Besides 
the  aid  of  Mr.  Perkins,  a  kind  enough  man  in  his  way, 
the  good  physician  whom  she  had  before  consulted  still 
attended  her,  and  —  refused  his  fee.  Shocked  at  per- 
ceiving that  she  rejected  every  little  alleviation  of  her 
condition,  and  wishing  at  least  to  procure  for  her  last 
hours  the  society  of  one  of  her  sons,  he  had  inquired  the 
address  of  the  elder;  and  on  the  day  preceding  the  one 
in  which  Arthur  discovered  her  abode,  he  despatched  to 
Philip  the  following  letter :  — 

Sir,  —  Being  called  in  to  attend  your  mother  in  a  lingering 
illness,  which  I  fear  may  prove  fatal,  I  think  it  my  duty  to 
request  you  to  come  to  her  as  soon  as  you  receive  this.  Your 
presence  cannot  but  be  a  great  comfort  to  her.  The  nature  of 
her  illness  is  such  that  it  is  impossible  to  calculate  exactly  how 
long  she  may  be  spared  to  you ;  but  I  am  sure  her  fate  might 
be  prolonged,  and  her  remaining  days  more  happy,  if  she 
could  be  induced  to  remove  into  a  better  air  and  a  more  qiiiet 
neighborhood,  to  take  more  generous  sustenance,  and,  above 
all,  if  her  mind  could  be  set  more  at  ease  as  to  your  aud  your 
brother's  prospects.  You  must  pardon  me  if  I  have  seemed 
inquisitive  ;  but  I  have  sought  to  draw  from  your  mother  some 
particulars  as  to  her  family  and  connections,  with  a  wish  to 
represent  to  them  her  state  of  mind.  She  is,  however,  very 
reserved  on  these  points.  If,  however,  3-ou  have  relations  well- 
to-do  in  the  world,  I  think  some  application  to  then)  should 
be  made.  I  fear  the  state  of  her  affairs  weighs  much  upon 
your  poor  mother's  mind  ;  and  I  must  leave  you  to  judge  how 
far  it  can  be  relieved  by  the  good  feeling  of  any  persons  upon 
whom  she  may  have  legitimate  claims.  At  all  events,  I  re- 
peat my  wish  that  you  should  come  to  her  forthwith. 

I  am,  etc., 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  123 

After  the  physician  had  despatched  tliis  letter,  a  sud- 
den and  marked  alteration  for  the  worse  took  place  in  his 
patient's  disorder;  and  in  the  visit  he  had  paid  that 
morning,  he  saw  cause  to  fear  that  her  liours  on  earth 
Avould  be  much  fswer  than  he  had  before  anticipated. 
He  had  left  her,  however,  comparatively  better;  but  two 
liours  after  his  departure,  the  symptoms  of  her  disease 
had  become  very  alarming,  and  the  good-natured  servant- 
girl,  her  sole  nurse,  and  who  had,  moreover,  the  whole 
business  of  the  other  lodgers  to  attend  to,  had,  as  we 
have  seen,  thought  it  necessary  to  summon  the  apothe- 
cary in  the   interval  that  must  elapse  before   she  could 

reach  the  distant  part  of  the  metropolis  in  which  Dr. 

resided. 

On  entering  the  chamber,  Arthur  felt  all  the  remorse 
which  of  right  belonged  to  his  father,  press  heavily  on 
his  soul.  What  a  contrast,  that  mean  and  solitary 
chamber,  and  its  comfortless  appurtenances,  to  the  grace- 
ful and  luxurious  abode  where  full  of  health  and  hope 
he  had  last  beheld  her,  the  mother  of  Philip  Beaufort's 
children!  He  remained  silent  till  Mr.  Perkins,  after 
a  few  questions,  retired  to  send  his  drugs.  He  then  ap- 
proached the  bed;  Catherine,  though  very  weak  and 
suffering  much  pain,  was  still  sensible.  She  turned  her 
dim  eyes  on  the  young  man ;  but  she  did  not  recognize 
his  features. 

"  You  do  not  remember  me  ?  "  said  he,  in  a  voice  strug- 
gling with  tears ;  "  I  am  Arthur  —  Arthur  Beaufort. " 

Catherine  made  no  answer. 

"  Good  heavens !  Why  do  I  see  you  here  ?  I  be- 
lieved you  with  your  friends,  your  children  provided 
for,  as  became  my  father  to  do.  He  assured  me  that 
you  were  so." 

Still  no  answer. 


124  ^"IGHT   AND    MORNING. 

And  then  the  young  man,  overpowered  with  the  feel- 
ings of  a  S3nnpathizing  and  generous  nature,  forgettmg 
for  awhile  Catherine's  weakness,  poured  forth  a  torrent 
of  inquiries,  regrets,  and  self-upbraiduigs,  which  Cathe- 
rine at  first  little  heeded.  But  the  name  of  her  children 
repeated  again  and  again,  struck  upon  that  chord  wliich, 
in  a  woman's  heart,  is  the  last  to  break ;  and  she  raised 
herself  in  her  bed,  and  looked  at  her  visitor  wistfully. 

"  Your  father, "  she  said,  then,  —  "  your  father  was 
unlilve  my  Philip;  but  I  see  things  differently  now. 
For  me,  all  bounty  is  too  late ;  but  my  children,  —  to- 
morrow they  may  have  no  mother.  The  law  is  with 
you,  but  not  justice!  You  will  be  rich  and  powerful; 
will  you  befriend  my  children  1  " 

"Through  life,  so  help  me  Heaven!"  exclaimed 
Artliur,  falling  on  his  knees  beside  the  bed. 

What  then  passed  between  them  it  is  needless  to  de- 
tail ;  for  it  was  little,  save  broken  repetitions  of  the  same 
prayer  and  the  same  response.  But  there  was  so  much 
truth  and  earnestness  in  Arthur's  voice  and  countenance 
that  Catherine  felt  as  if  an  angel  had  come  there  to  ad- 
minister comfort.  And  when,  late  in  the  day,  the  phy- 
sician entered,  he  found  his  patient  leaning  on  the  breast 
of  her  young  visitor,  and  looking  on  his  face  with  a 
happy  smile. 

The  physician  gathered  enough  from  the  appearance  of 
Arthur  and  the  gossip  of  Mr.  Perkins  to  conjecture  that 
one  of  the  rich  relations  he  had  attributed  to  Catherine 
was  arrived.     Alas !  for  her  it  was  now  indeed  too  late ! 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  125 


CHAPTEK  XI. 

D'  ye  stand  amazed  ?  —  Look  o'er  thy  head,  Maximinian  ! 
Look  to  the  terror  which  overhaugs  thee. 

Beaumont  and  Plktcher  :  The  Prophetess. 

Philip  had  been  five  weeks  in  his  new  home;  in  an- 
other week  he  was  to  enter  on  his  articles  of  apprentice- 
ship. With  a  stern,  unbending  gloom  of  manner  he  had 
couunenced  the  duties  of  his  novitiate.  He  submitted  to 
aU  that  was  enjoined  him.  He  seemed  to  have  lost  for- 
ever the  wild  and  unruly  waywardness  that  had  stamped 
his  boyhood ;  but  he  was  never  seen  to  smUe,  —  he 
scarcely  ever  opened  his  lips.  His  very  soul  seemed  to 
have  quitted  him  with  its  faults ;  and  he  performed  all 
the  functions  of  his  situation  Avith  the  quiet  listless  regu- 
larity of  a  machine.  Only  when  the  work  was  done  and 
the  shop  closed,  instead  of  joining  the  family  circle  in 
the  back  parlor,  he  would  stroU  out  in  the  dusk  of  the 
evening,  away  from  the  town,  and  not  return  till  the 
hour  at  which  the  family  retired  to  rest.  Punctual  in 
all  he  did,  he  never  exceeded  that  hour.  He  had  heard 
once  a  week  from  his  mother;  and  only  on  the  mornings 
in  which  he  expected  a  letter  did  he  seem  restless  and 
agitated.  Till  the  postman  entered  the  shop  he  was  as 
pale  as  death,  —  his  hands  trembling,  his  lips  com- 
pressed. When  he  read  the  letter  he  became  composed; 
for  Catherine  sedidously  concealed  from  her  son  the 
state  of  her  health:  she  wrote  cheerfully,  besought  him 
to   content   himself  with   the  state  into  which  he   had 


126  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

fallen,  and  expressed  her  joy  that  in  his  letters  he  inti- 
mated that  content;  for  the  poor  boy's  letters  were  not 
less  considerate  than  her  own.  On  her  return  from  her 
brother  she  had  so  far  silenced  or  concealed  her  misgiv- 
ings as  to  express  satisfaction  at  the  home  she  had  pro- 
vided for  Sidney ;  and  she  even  held  out  hopes  of  some 
future,  when,  their  probation  finished  and  their  indepen- 
dence secured,  she  might  reside  with  her  sons  alternately. 
These  hopes  redoubled  Philip's  assiduity,  and  he  saved 
every  shilling  of  his  weekly  stipend;  and  sighed  as  he 
thought  that  in  another  week  his  term  of  apprenticeship 
would  commence,  and  the  stipend  cease. 

Mr.  Plaskwith  could  not  but  be  pleased  on  the  whole 
with  the  diligence  of  his  assistant,  but  he  was  chafed  and 
irritated  by  the  sullenness  of  his  manner.  As  for  Mrs. 
Plaskwith,  poor  woman!  she  positively  detested  the  taci- 
turn and  moody  boy,  who  never  mingled  in  the  jokes  of 
the  circle,  nor  played  with  the  children,  nor  compli- 
mented her,  nor  added,  in  short,  anything  to  the  socia- 
bility of  the  house.  Mr.  Plimmins,  who  had  at  first 
sought  to  condescend,  next  sought  to  bully;  but  the 
gaunt  frame  and  savage  eye  of  Philip  awed  the  smirk 
youth,  in  spite  of  himself;  and  he  confessed  to  Mrs. 
Plaskwith  that  he  should  not  like  to  meet  "  the  gypsy  " 
alone  on  a  dark  night ;  to  which  Mrs.  Plaskwith  replied 
as  usual,  "  that  Mr.  Plimmins  always  did  say  the  best 
things  in  the  world!  " 

One  morning  Philip  was  sent  a  few  miles  into  the 
country  to  assist  in  cataloguing  some  books  in  the 
library  of  Sir  Thomas  Champerdown,  —  that  gentleman, 
who  was  a  scholar,  having  requested  that  some  one 
acquainted  with  the  Greek  character  might  be  sent  to 
him,  and  Philip  being  the  only  one  in  the  shop  who 
possessed   such  knowledge. 


NIGHT   AND    MOKNING.  127 

It  was  evening  before  he  returned.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Plaskwith  were  both  in  the  shop  as  he  entered,  —  in  fact 
they  had  been  employed  in  talking  him  over. 

"  I  can't  abide  him !  "  cried  Mrs.  Plaskwith.  "  If  you 
choose  to  take  him  for  good  I  sha'n't  have  an  easy  mo- 
ment. I  'm  sure  the  'prentice  that  cut  his  master's 
throat  at  Chatham  last  week  was  just  like  him." 

"Pshaw!  Mrs.  P.,"  said  the  bookseller,  taking  a 
huge  pinch  of  snuff,  as  usual,  from  his  waistcoat-pocket. 
"  I  myself  was  reserved  when  I  was  young :  all  reflective 
people  are.  I  may  observe,  by  the  by,  that  it  was  the 
case  with  Xapoleon  Bonaparte;  still,  however,  I  must 
OAvn  he  is  a  disagreeable  youth,  though  he  attends  to  his 
business. " 

"And  how  fond  of  his  money  he  is!  "  remarked  Mrs. 
Plaskwith;  "he  won't  buy  himself  a  new  pair  of  shoes! 
—  quite  disgraceful !  And  did  you  see  Avhat  a  look  he 
gave  Plimmins  when  he  joked  about  his  indifference 
to  his  sole  ?  Plimmins  always  does  say  such  good 
things!  " 

"  He  is  shabby,  certainly, "  said  the  bookseller ;  "  but 
the  value  of  a  book  does  not  always  depend  on  the 
binding. " 

"  I  hope  he  is  honest !  "  observed  Mrs.  Plaskwith ; 
and  here  Philip  entered. 

"  Hum, "  said  Mr.  Plaskwith ;  "  you  have  had  a  long 
day's  Avork;  but  I  suppose  it  will  take  a  week  to  finish? " 

"  I  am  to  go  again  to-morrow  morning,  sir :  two  days 
more  will  conclude  the  task." 

"There's  a  letter  for  you,"  cried  Mrs.  Plaskwith; 
"  you  owes  me  for  it. " 

"  A  letter !  "  It  was  not  his  mother's  hand :  it  was 
a  strange  writing,  he  gasped  for  breath  as  he  broke  the 
seal.     It  was  the  letter  of  the  physician. 


128  NIGHT   AND   xMOllNING. 

His  mother  then  was  ill, —  clyiiig, —  wanting,  perhaps, 
the  necessaries  of  Hfe.  She  would  have  concealed  from 
him  her  illness  and  her  poverty.  His  quick  alarm  exag- 
gerated tlie  last  into  utter  want;  he  uttered  a  cry  that 
rang  through  the  shop,  and  rushed  to  Mr.  Plaskwith. 

"  Sir,  sir !  my  mother  is  dying !     She   is  poor,   poor, 

—  perhaps  starving;  money,  money  !  —  lend  me  money! 

—  ten  pounds !  —  five !  —  I  will  work  for  you  aU  my  life 
for  nothing,  hut  lend  me  the  money  !  " 

"  Hoity-toity  !  "  said  Mrs.  Plaskwith,  nudging  her 
hushand,  —  "I  told  you  what  would  come  of  it;  it  will 
be  '  money  or  life  '  next  time. " 

Philip  did  not  heed  or  hear  this  address,  hut  stood  im- 
mediately before  the  bookseller,  his  hands  clasped,  — 
wild  impatience  in  his  eyes.  Mr.  Plaskwith,  somewhat 
stupefied,  remained  silent. 

"  Do  you  hear  me  ?  —  are  you  human  ?  "  exclaimed 
Philip,  his  emotion  revealing  at  once  aU  the  fire  of  his 
character.  "  I  tell  you  my  mother  is  dying !  I  must  go 
to  her!     Shall  I  go  empty-handed?     Give  me  money !  " 

Mr.  Plaskwith  was  not  a  bad-hearted  man;  but  he 
was  a  formal  man  and  an  irritable  one.  The  tone  his 
shopboy  (for  so  he  considered  Philip)  assumed  to  him, 
before  his  own  wife,  too  (examples  are  very  dangerous), 
rather  exasperated  than  moved  him. 

"  That 's  not  the  way  to  speak  to  your  master :  you 
forget  yourself,  young  man !  " 

"  Forget!  But,  sir,  if  she  has  not  necessaries,  —  if  she 
is  starving  ? " 

"  Fudge  1  "  said  Mr.  Plaskwith.  "  Mr.  Morton  writes 
me  word  that  he  has  provided  for  your  mother.  Does 
not  he,  Hannah?  " 

"  More  fool  he,  I  'm  sure,  with  such  a  fine  family  of 
his  own!     Don't  look  at  me  in  that  way,  young  man,  I 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  129 

won't  take  it,  —  tliat  I  won't.      I  declare  my  blood  fi'iz 
to  see  you!  " 

"  Will  you  advance  me  money  1  —  five  pounds,  —  only 
five  pounds,  Mr.  Plaskwitli  ?  " 

"  Not  five  shillings  !  Talk  to  7ne  in  this  style !  Not 
the  man  for  it,  sir  !  —  highly  improper.  Come,  shut 
up  the  shop,  and  recollect  yourself ;  and,  perhaps,  when 
Sir  Thomas's  library  is  done,  I  may  let  you  go  to 
town.  You  can't  to-morrow.  All  a  sham,  perhaps ;  eh, 
Hannah  1  " 

"  Very  likely !  Consult  PlimmLns.  Better  come  away 
now,  Mr.  P.     He  looks  like  a  young  tiger. " 

Mrs.  Plaskwith  quitted  the  shop  for  the  parlor.  Her 
husband,  puttmg  his  hands  behind  his  back,  and  throw- 
ing back  his  chin,  was  about  to  follow  her.  Pliilip,  who 
had  remained  for  the  last  moment  mute  and  white  as 
stone,  turned  abruptly;  and  his  grief  taking  rather  the 
tone  of  rage  than  suppHcation,  he  threw  himself  be- 
fore his  master,  and,  laying,  his  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
said,  — 

"  I  leave  you,  —  do  not  let  it  be  with  a  curse.  I  con- 
jure you,  have  mercy  on  me  !  " 

Mr.  Plaskwith  stopped;  and  had  Philip  then  taken 
but  a  milder  tone,  all  had  been  well.  But,  accustomed 
from  childhood  to  command,  all  his  fierce  passions  loose 
within  him,  despising  the  very  man  he  thus  implored, 
the  boy  ruined  his  own  cause.  Indignant  at  the 
silence  of  Mr.  Plaskwith,  and  too  blinded  by  his  emo- 
tions to  see  that  in  that  silence  there  was  relenting,  he 
suddenly  shook  the  little  man  with  a  vehemence  that 
ahnost  overset  him,  and  cried, — ■ 

"  You,  who  demand  for  five  years  my  bones  and  blood, 
my  body  and  soul,  a  slave  to  your  vile  trade, —  do  you 
deny  me  bread  for  a  mother's  lips  1  " 

VOL.  I.  —  9 


130  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

Trembling  with  auger,  and,  perhaps,  fear,  Mr.  Plask- 
Avith  extricated  himself  from  the  gripe  of  Philip,  and, 
hurrying  from  the  shop,  said,  as  he  banged  the  door :  — 

"  Beg  my  pardon  for  this  to-night,  or  out  you  go  to- 
morrow, neck  and  crop !  Zounds !  a  pretty  pass  the 
Avorld  's  come  to !  I  don't  believe  a  word  about  your 
mother.     Baugh !  " 

Left  alone,  Philip  remained  for  some  moments  strug- 
gling with  his  wrath  and  agony.  He  then  seized  his 
hat,  which  he  had  thrown  off  on  entering,  pressed  it  over 
his  brows,  turned  to  quit  the  shop,  when  his  eye  fell 
upon  the  till.  Plaskwith  had  left  it  open,  and  the  gleam 
of  the  coin  struck  his  gaze,  —  that  deadly  smile  of  the 
arch  tempter.  Intellect,  reason,  conscience,  —  all,  in  that 
instant,  were  confusion  and  chaos.  He  cast  a  hurried 
glance  round  the  solitary  and  darkening  room,  plunged 
liis  hand  into  the  drawer,  clutched  he  knew  not  what, 
—  silver  or  gold,  as  it  came  uppermost, —  and  burst  into 
a  loud  and  bitter  laugh.  That  laugh  itself  startled  him ; 
it  did  not  sound  like  his  own.  His  face  fell,  and  his 
knees  knocked  together;  his  hair  bristled;  he  felt  as  if 
the  very  fiend  had  uttered  that  yell  of  joy  over  a  fallen 
soul. 

"  No,  no,  no !  "  he  muttered ;  "  no,  my  mother,  —  not 
even  for  thee  !  "  And,  dashing  the  money  to  the  ground, 
he  fled  like  a  maniac  from  the  house. 

At  a  later  hour  that  same  evening  Mr.  Robert  Beau- 
fort returned  from  his  country  mansion  to  Berkeley 
Square.  He  found  his  wife  very  uneasy  and  nervous 
about  the  non-appearance  of  their  only  son.  Arthur  had 
sent  home  his  groom  and  horses  about  seven  o'clock, 
with  a  hurried  scroll,  written  in  pencil  on  a  blank  page 
torn  from  his  pockctbook,  and  containing  only  these 
words :  — 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  131 

"  Don't  wait  dinner  for  me,  —  I  may  not  be  home  for  some 
hours.  I  have  met  with  a  melancholy  adventure.  You  will 
approve  what  I  have  done  when  we  meet." 

This  note  a  little  perplexed  Mr.  Beaufort ;  but,  as  he 
was  very  hungry,  he  turned,  a  deaf  ear  both  to  his  wife's 
conjectures  and  his  own  surmises,  till  he  had  refreshed 
himself;  and  then  he  sent  for  the  groom,  and  learned 
that,  after  the  accident  to  the  blind  man,   Mr.    Arthur 

had  been  left  at  a  hosier's  in  H .     This  seemed  to 

him  extremely  mysterious;  and,  as  hour  after  hour 
passed  away,  and  still  Arthur  came  not,  he  began  to  im- 
bibe his  wife's  fears,  which  were  now  wound  up  almost 
to  hysterics;  and  just  at  midnight  he  ordered  his  carriage, 
and  taking  with  him  the  groom  as  a  guide,  set  off  to  the 
suburban  region.  Mrs.  Beaufort  had  wished  to  accom- 
pany him ;  but  the  husband  observing  that  young  men 
would  be  young  men,  and  that  there  migJtt  possibly  be 
a  lady  in  the  case,  Mrs.  Beaufort,  after  a  pause  of 
thought,  passively  agreed  that,  all  things  considered,  she 
had  better  remain  at  home.  No  lady  of  proper  decorum 
likes  to  run  the  risk  of  finding  herself  in  a  false  position. 
Mr.  Beaufort  accordingly  set  out  alone.  Easy  was  the 
carriage,  swift  were  the  steeds,  and  luxuriously  the 
wealthy  man  was  whirled  along.  Not  a  suspicion  of  the 
true  cause  of  Arthur's  detention  crossed  him;  but  he 
thought  of  the  snares  of  London,  —  of  artful  females  in 
distress,  "  A  melancholy  adventure  "  generally  implies 
love  for  the  adventure,  and  money  for  the  melancholy; 
and  Arthur  was  young,  generous,  with  a  heart  and  a 
pocket  equally  open  to  imposition.  Such  scrapes,  how- 
ever, do  not  terrify  a  father  when  he  is  a  man  of  the 
world,  so  much  as  they  do  an  anxious  mother ;  and,  with 
more  curiosity  than  alarm,  Mr.  Beaufort,  after  a  short 
doze,  found  himself  before  the  shop  indicated. 


132  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

Notwithstanding  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  the  door  to 
the  private  entrance  was  ajar,  — a  circumstance  which 
seemed  very  suspicious  to  Mr.  Beaufort,  He  pushed  it 
open  with  caution  and  timidity ;  a  candle  placed  upon  a 
cliair  in  the  narrow  passage  threw  a  sickly  light  over  the 
flight  of  stairs,  till  swallowed  up  by  the  deep  shadow 
from  the  sharp  angle  made  by  the  ascent.  Robert  Beau- 
fort stood  a  moment  in  some  doubt  whether  to  call,  to 
knock,  to  recede,  or  to  advance,  when  a  step  was  heard 
upon  the  stairs  above ;  it  came  nearer  and  nearer,  —  a 
figure  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  the  last  landing-place, 
and  Mr.  Beaufort,  to  his  great  joy,  recognized  his  son. 

Arthur  did  not,  however,  seem  to  perceive  his  father, 
and  was  about  to  pass  him,  when  Mr.  Beaufort  laid  his 
hand  on  his  arm. 

"  What  means  all  this,  Arthur  ?  What  place  are  you 
in  1     How  you  have  alarmed  us  !  " 

Arthur  cast  a  look  upon  his  father  of  sadness  and 
reproach. 

"  Father, "  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  sounded  stern, 
almost  commanding,  —  "I  will  show  you  where  I  have 
been :  follow  me,  —  nay,  I  say,  follow. " 

He  turned  without  another  word,  re-ascended  the 
stairs;  and  Mr.  Beaufort,  surprised  and  awed  into  me- 
chanical obedience,  did  as  his  son  desired.  At  the 
landing-place  of  the  second  floor,  another  long-wicked, 
neglected,  ghastly  candle  emitted  its  cheerless  ray.  It 
gleamed  through  the  open  door  of  a  small  bedroom  to  the 
left,  through  which  Beaufort  perceived  the  forms  of  two 
women.  One  (it  was  the  kindly  maid-servant)  was 
seated  on  a  chair,  and  weeping  bitterly ;  the  other  (it 
was  a  hireling  nurse,  in  the  first  and  last  day  of  her 
attendance)  was  unpinning  her  dingy  shawl  before  she 
lay  down  to  take  a  nap.     She  turned  her  vacant,  listless 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  133 

face  upon   the   two  men,   put  on  a  doleful   smile,    and 
decently  closed  the  door. 

"  Where  are  we,  I  say,  Arthur  ?  "  repeated  Mr.  Beau- 
fort. Arthur  took  his  father's  hand,  drew  him  into  a 
room  to  the  right,  and  taking  vip  the  candle,  placed  it 
on  a  small  table  beside  a  bed,  and  said,  "  Here,  sir,  in 
the  presence  of  death!  " 

Mr.  Beaufort  cast  a  hurried  and  fearful  glance  on  the 
still,  wan,  serene  face  beneath  his  eyes,  and  recognized 
in  that  glance  the  features  of  the  neglected  and  the 
once-adored  Catherine. 

"  Yes ;  she,  whom  your  brother  so  loved,  the  mother 
of  his  children,  died  in  this  squalid  room,  and  far  from 
her  sons,  in  poverty,  in  sorrow !  —  died  of  a  broken 
heart !  Was  that  well,  father  ?  Have  you  in  this 
nothing  to  repent  1  " 

Conscience-stricken  and  appalled,  the  worldly  man 
sank  down  on  a  seat  beside  the  bed,  and  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands. 

"  Ay,"  continued  Arthur,  almost  bitterly,  —  "ay,  we, 
his  nearest  of  kin,  we,  who  have  inherited  his  lands  and 
gold,  — we  have  been  tlius  heedless  of  that  great  legacy 
your  brother  bequeathed  to  us,  the  things  dearest  to  him, 
the  woman  he  loved,  the  children  his  death  cast,  name- 
less and  branded,  on  the  world.  Ay,  weep,  father;  and 
while  you  weep,  think  of  the  future,  of  reparation.  I 
have  sworn  to  that  clay  to  befriend  her  sons ;  join  you, 
who  have  all  the  power  to  fulfil  the  promise,  — join  in 
that  vow :  and  may  Heaven  not  visit  on  us  both  the  woes 
of  this  bed  of  death  !  " 

"  I  did  not  know  —  I  —  I  —  "  faltered  Mr.  Beaufort. 

"  But  we  should  have  known, "  interrupted  Arthur, 
mournfully.  "  Ah,  my  dear  father !  do  not  harden  youi 
heart  by  false  excuses.     The  dead  still  speaks  to  you, 


134  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

and  commends  to  your  care  her  children.  My  task  here 
is  done:  oh,  sir!  yours  is  to  come.  I  leave  you  alone 
with  the  dead." 

So  saying,  the  young  man,  whom  the  tragedy  of  the 
Bcene  had  worked  into  a  passion  and  a  dignity  above  his 
usual  character,  unwilling  to  trust  himself  farther  to  his 
emotions,  turned  abruptly  from  the  room,  fled  rapidly 
down  the  stairs,  and  left  the  house.  As  the  carriage  and 
liveries  of  his  father  met  his  eye,  he  groaned;  for  their 
evidences  of  comfort  and  wealth  seemed  a  mockery  to 
the  deceased.  He  averted  his  face  and  walked  on ;  nor 
did  he  heed  nor  even  perceive  a  form  that  at  that  instant 
rushed  by  him  —  pale,  haggard,  breathless  —  towards 
the  house  which  he  had  quitted,  and  the  door  of  which 
he  left  open,  as  he  had  found  it,  —  open,  as  the  physician 
had  left  it  when  hurry mg,  ten  minutes  before  the  arrival 
of  Mr.  Beaufort,  from  the  spot  where  his  skill  was  im- 
potent. Wrap{)ed  in  gloomy  thought,  alone,  and  on 
foot,  at  that  dreary  hour,  and  in  that  remote  suburb,  — 
the  heir  of  the  Beauforts  sought  his  splendid  home. 
Anxious,  fearful,  hoping,  the  outcast  orphan  flew  on  to 
the  deatli-room  of  his  mother. 

Mr.  Beaufort,  who  had  but  imperfectly  heard  Arthur's 
parting  accents,  lost  and  bewildered  by  the  strangeness 
of  his  situation,  did  not  at  first  perceive  that  he  was  left 
alone.  Surprised,  and  chilled  by  the  sudden  silence  of 
the  chamber,  he  rose,  withdrew  his  hands  from  his  face, 
and  again  he  saw  tliat  countenance  so  mute  and  solemn. 
He  cast  his  gaze  round  the  dismal  room  for  Arthur ;  he 
called  his  name,  —  no  answer  came.  A  superstitious 
tremor  seized  upon  him ;  his  limbs  shook ;  he  sank  once 
more  on  his  seat,  and  closed  his  eyes, — muttering,  for  the 
first  time,  perhaps,  since  his  childhood,  words  of  peni- 
tence and  prayer.     He  was  roused  from  this  bitter  self* 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  135 

abstraction  by  a  deep  groan.  It  seemed  to  come  from 
the  bed.  Did  his  ears  deceive  him ;  had  the  dead  found 
a  voice  1  He  started  up  in  an  agony  of  dread,  and  saw 
opposite  to  him  the  livid  countenance  of  Philip  Morton; 
the  son  of  the  corpse  had  replaced  the  son  of  the  living 
man !  The  dim  and  solitary  light  fell  upon  that  counte- 
nance. There,  all  the  bloom  and  freshness  natural  to 
youth  seemed  blasted !  There,  on  those  wasted  features, 
played  all  the  terrible  power  and  glare  of  precocious  pas- 
sions,—  rage,  woe,  scorn,  despair.  Terrible  is  it  to  see 
upon  the  face  of  a  boy  the  storm  and  whirlwind  that 
should  visit  only  the  strong  heart  of  a  man! 

"  She  is  dead  !  —  dead  !  and  in  your  presence !  " 
shouted  Philip,  with  his  wild  eyes  fixed  upon  the  cow- 
ering uncle ;  "  dead  with  care,  perhaps  with  famine.  And 
you  have  come  to  look  upon  your  work !  " 

"  Indeed, "  said  Beaufort,  deprecatingly,  "  I  have  but 
just  arrived ;  I  did  not  know  she  had  been  ill,  or  in  want, 
upon  my  honor.  This  is  all  a  —  a —  mistake ;  I  —  I  — 
came  in  search  of  —  of  —  another  —  " 

"  You  did  not,  then,  come  to  relieve  her  1 "  said  Philip, 
very  calmly.  "You  had  not  learned  her  suffering  and 
distress,  and  flown  hither  in  the  hope  that  there  was  yet 
time  to  save  her  ?  You  did  not  do  this  ?  Ha !  ha !  — 
why  did  I  think  if?" 

"  Did  any  one  call,  gentlemen  1  "  said  a  whining  voice 
at  the  door ;  and  the  nurse  put  in  her  head. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  you  may  come  in, "  said  Beaufort,  shaking 
with  nameless  and  cowardly  apprehension;  but  Philip 
had  flown  to  the  door,  and,  gazing  on  the  nurse,  said, — • 

"  She  is  a  stranger!  —  see,  a  stranger!  The  son  now 
has  assumed  his  post.  Begone,  woman !  "  and  he  pushed 
her  away,  and  drew  the  bolt  across  the  door. 

And  then  there  looked  upon  him,  as  there  had  looked 


136  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

xipon  his  reluctant  companion,  calm  and  holy,  the  face  of 
the  peaceful  corpse.  He  burst  into  tears,  and  fell  on  his 
knees  so  close  to  Beaufort  that  he  touched  him;  he 
took  up  the  heavy  hand,  and  covered  it  with  burning 
kisses. 

"  JNIother !  mother !  do  not  leave  me !  wake,  smile 
once  more  on  your  son!  I  would  have  brought  you 
money,  but  I  could  not  have  asked  for  your  blessing, 
then;  mother,  I  ask  it  now!  " 

"  If  I  had  but  known,  if  you  had  but  written  to  me, 
my  dear  young  gentleman;  but  my  offers  had  been 
refused,  and  —  " 

"  Offers  of  a  hirelmg's  pittance  to  her;  to  her  for  whom 
my  father  would  have  coined  his  heart's  blood  into  gold ! 
My  father's  wife  ! —  his  wife  !  —  offers  —  " 

He  rose  suddenly,  folded  his  arms,  and,  facing  Beau- 
fort with  a  fierce,   determined  brow,  said, — 

"  Mark  me,  you  hold  the  wealth  that  I  was  trained 
from  my  cradle  to  consider  my  heritage.  I  have  worked 
with  these  hands  for  bread,  and  never  complained,  except 
to  my  own  heart  and  soul.  I  never  hated,  and  never 
cursed  you,  robber  as  you  were, —  yes,  robber!  For, 
even  were  there  no  marriage,  save  in  the  sight  of  God, 
neither  my  father,  nor  nature,  nor  Heaven,  meant  that 
you  should  seize  all,  and  that  there  should  be  nothing 
due  to  the  claims  of  affection  and  blood.  He  was  not  the 
less  my  father,  even  if  the  Church  spoke  not  on  my  side. 
Despoiler  of  the  orphan,  and  derider  of  human  love,  you 
are  not  the  less  a  robber,  though  the  law  fences  you 
round,  and  men  call  you  honest!  But  I  did  not  hate  you 
for  this.  Now,  in  the  presence  of  my  dead  mother, — 
dead,  far  from  both  her  sons,  —  now  I  abhor  and  curse 
you.  You  may  think  yourself  safe  when  you  quit  this 
room, —  safe,  and  from  my  hatred;  you  may  be  so:  but 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  137 

do  not  deceive  yourself, —  the  curse  of  the  widow  and  the 
orphan  shall  pursue,  it  shall  cling  to  you  and  yours;  it 
shall  gnaw  your  heart  in  the  midst  of  splendor ;  it  shall 
cleave  to  the  heritage  of  your  son!  There  shall  be  a 
deathbed  yet,  beside  which  you  shall  see  the  spectre  of 
her,  now  so  calm,  rising  for  retribution  from  the  grave ! 
These  words, —  no,  you  shall  never  forget  them;  years 
hence  they  shall  ring  in  your  ears,  and  freeze  the  marrow 
of  your  bones!  And  now  begone,  my  father's  brother, — ■ 
begone  from  my  mother's  corpse  to  your  luxurious 
home. " 

He  opened  the  door,  and  pointed  to  the  stairs.  Beau- 
fort, without  a  word,  turned  from  the  room  and  departed. 
He  heard  the  door  closed  and  locked  as  he  descended  the 
stairs ;  but  he  did  not  hear  the  deep  groans  and  vehement 
sobs  in  which  the  desolate  orphan  gave  vent  to  the  an- 
guish which  succeeded  to  the  less  sacred  paroxysm  of 
revenge  and  wrath. 


BOOK  II. 

mcnb  warb'§  unb  irurbe  5J?orgen ; 
9timmer,  nimmcr  ftaitb  ic^  ftid. 

Schiller,  i)er  Pilgrim. 


BOOK  11. 


CHAPTER  I. 


Incubo.  — Look  to  the  cavalier.     What  ails  he  ? 


Hostess.  — And  in  such  good  clothes,  too ! 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher:   Love's  Pilgrimage, 

Theod.  —  I  have  a  hrother,  —  there  my  last  hope ! 

Thus  as  you  find  me,  without  fear  or  wisdom. 
I  now  am  only  child  of  Hope  and  Danger. 

Ibid. 

The  time  employed  by  Mr.  Beaufort  in  reaching  his 
home  was  haunted  by  gloomy  and  confused  terrors. 
He  felt  inexplicably  as  if  the  denunciations  of  Philip 
were  to  visit  less  himself  than  his  son.  He  trembled 
at  the  thought  of  Arthur  meeting  this  strange,  wild, 
exasperated  scatterling,  —  perhaps  on  the  morrow,  —  in 
the  very  height  of  his  passions.  And  yet,  after  the 
scene  between  Arthur  and  himself,  he  saw  cause  to 
fear  that  he  might  not  be  able  to  exercise  a  sufficient 
authority  over  his  son,  however  naturally  facile  and 
obedient,  to  prevent  his  return  to  the  house  of  death. 
In  this  dilemma  he  resolved,  as  is  usual  with  cleverer 
men,  even  when  yoked  to  yet  feebler  helpmates,  to 
hear  if  his  wife  had  anything  comforting  or  sensible  to 
say  upon  the  subject.  Accordingly,  on  reaching  Berke- 
ley Square,  he  went  straight  to  Mrs.  Beaufort;  and, 
having  relieved  her  mind  as  to  Arthur's  safety,  related 


142  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

the  scene  in  which  he  had  been  so  nnwilling  an  actor. 
"Witli  that  more  livel}^  susceptihility  which  belongs  to 
most  women,  liowever  comparatively  unfeeling,  Mrs. 
Beaufort  made  greater  allowance  than  her  husband  for 
the  excitement  Philip  had  betrayed.  Still  Beaufort's 
description  of  the  dark  menaces,  the  fierce  countenance, 
the  brigand-like  form  of  the  bereaved  son,  gave  her 
very  considerable  apprehensions  for  Arthur,  should  the 
young  men  meet;  and  she  willingly  coincided  Avith  her 
husband  in  the  propriety  of  using  all  means  of  paren- 
tal persuasion  or  command  to  guard  against  such  an 
encounter.  But,  in  the  meanwhile,  Arthur  returned 
not,  and  new  fears  seized  the  anxious  parents.  He  had 
gone  forth  alone,  in  a  remote  suburb  of  the  metropolis, 
at  a  late  hour,  himself  under  strong  excitement.  He 
might  have  returned  to  the  house,  or  have  lost  his  way 
amidst  some  dark  haunts  of  violence  and  crime;  they 
knew  not  where  to  send,  or  what  to  suggest.  Day 
already  began  to  dawn,  and  still  he  came  not.  At 
length,  towards  five  o'clock,  a  loud  rap  was  heard  at 
the  door,  and  Mr.  Beaufort,  hearing  some  bustle  in  the 
hall,  descended.  He  saw  his  son  borne  into  the  hall 
from  a  hackney-coach  by  two  strangers,  pale,  bleeding, 
and  apparently  insensible.  His  first  thought  was,  that 
he  had  been  murdered  by  Philip.  He  uttered  a  feeble 
cry,  and  sank  down  beside  his  son. 

"Don't  be  darnted,  sir,"  said  one  of  the  strangers, 
who  seemed  an  artisan ;  "  I  don't  think  he  be  much 
hurt.  You  sees  he  was  crossing  the  street,  and  the 
coach  ran  against  him ;  but  it  did  not  go  over  his  head ; 
it  be  only  the  stones  that  makes  him  bleed  so :  and  that 's 
a  mercy." 

"A  providence,  sir,"  said  the  other  man;  "but  Pro- 
vidence watches  over  us  all,    night   and   day,    sleep  or 


# 
NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  143 

wake.  Hem!  We  were  passing  at  the  time  from  the 
meeting,  —  the  Odd  Fellows,  sir,  —  and  so  we  took  him, 
and  got  him  a  coach;  for  we  found  his  card  in  his 
pocket.  He  could  not  speak  just  then;  but  the  rattling 
of  the  coach  did  him  a  deal  of  good,  for  he  groaned,  — 
my  eyes !  how  he  groaned !  —  did  not  he,  Burrows  ?  " 
"  It  did  one's  heart  good  to  hear  him." 
"  Run  for  Astley  Cooper;  you, — go  to  Brodie.  Good 
heavens!  he  is  dying.  Be  quick  —  quick!"  cried  Mr. 
Beaufort  to  his  servants,  while  Mrs.  Beaufort,  who  had 
now  gained  the  spot,  with  greater  presence  of  mind  had 
Arthur  convej'ed  into  a  room. 

"It  is  a  judgment  upon  me,"  groaned  Beaufort, 
rooted  to  the  stone  of  his  hall,  and  left  alone  with  the 
strangers. 

"  No,  sir ;  it  is  not  a  judgment,  it  is  a  providence, "  said 
the  more  sanctimonious  and  better  dressed  of  the  two 
men ;  "  for,  put  the  question,  if  it  had  been  a  judgment, 
the  wheel  would  have  gone  over  him;  but  it  didn't: 
and,  whether  he  dies  or  not,  I  shall  always  say,  that  if 
that 's  not  a  providence,  I  don't  know  what  is.  We  have 
come  a  long  way,  sir ;  and  Burrows  is  a  poor  man ,  though 
I'm  well-to-do." 

This  hint  for  money  restored  Beaufort  to  his  recollec- 
tion; he  put  his  purse  into  the  nearest  hand  outstretched 
to  clutch  it,  and  muttered  forth  something  like  thanks. 

"  Sir,  may  the  Lord  bless  you !  and  I  hope  the  young 
gentleman  will  do  well.  I  am  sure  you  have  cause  to 
be  thankful  that  he  Avas  within  an  inch  of  the  wheel; 
was  not  he.  Burrows  1  Well,  it 's  enough  to  convert  a 
heathen.  But  the  ways  of  Providence  are  mysterious, 
and  that 's  the  truth  of  it.      Good-night,  sir. " 

Certainly  it  did  seem  as  if  the  curse  of  Philip  was 
already  at  its  work.     An  accident  almost  similar  to  that 


144  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

which,  in  the  adventure  of  the  blind  man,  had  led 
Arthur  to  the  clew  of  Catherine,  within  twenty-four 
hours  stretched  Arthur  himself  upon  his  bed.  The  sor- 
row Mr.  Beaufort  had  not  relieved,  was  now  at  his  own 
hearth.  But  there,  were  parents  and  nurses,  and  great 
physicians  and  skilful  surgeons,  and  all  the  army  that 
combine  against  death,  —  and  there,  were  ease  and  lux- 
ury and  kind  eyes  and  pitying  looks,  and  all  that  can 
take  the  sting  from  pain.  And  thus,  the  very  night  on 
which  Catherine  had  died,  broken  down  and  worn-out, 
upon  a  strange  breast,  with  a  feeless  doctor,  and  by  the 
ray  of  a  single  candle,  the  heir  to  the  fortunes  once  des- 
tined to  her  son,  wrestled  also  with  the  grim  Tyrant,  who 
seemed,  however,  scared  from  his  prey  by  the  arts  and 
luxuries  which  the  world  of  rich  men  raises  up  in  defiance 
of  the  grave. 

Arthur  was,  indeed,  very  seriously  injured;  one  of  his 
ribs  was  broken,  and  he  had  received  two  severe  contu- 
sions on  the  head.  To  insensibility  succeeded  fever,  fol- 
lowed by  delirium.  He  was  in  imminent  danger  for 
several  days.  If  anything  coxild  console  his  parents  for 
such  an  affliction,  it  was  the  thought  that,  at  least,  he 
was  saved  from  the  chance  of  meeting  Philip.  Mr. 
Beaufort,  in  the  instinct  of  that  capricious  and  fluctuat- 
ing conscience  which  belongs  to  weak  minds,  which  re- 
mains still,  and  drooping,  and  lifeless,  as  a  flag  on  a 
mast-head  during  the  calm  of  prosperity,  but  flutters,  and 
flaps,  and  tosses  when  the  wind  blows  and  the  wave 
heaves,  thought  very  acutely  and  remorsefully  of  the  con- 
dition of  the  Mortons,  during  the  danger  of  his  own  son. 
So  far,  indeed,  from  his  anxiety  for  Arthur  monopolizing 
all  his  care,  it  only  sharpened  his  charity  towards  the 
orphans;  for  many  a  man  becomes  devout  and  good  when 
he  fancies  he  has  an  immediate   interest   in  appeasing 


KIGHT   AND    MORNING.  145 

Providence.  The  morning  after  Arthur's  accident,  he 
sent  for  Mr.  Blackwell.  He  commissioned  him  to  see 
that  Catherine's  funeral  rites  were  performed  with  all 
due  care  and  attention ;  he  hade  him  oljtain  an  interview 
with  Philip,  and  assure  the  youth  of  Mr.  Beaufort's 
good  and  friendly  disposition  towards  him,  and  to  offer 
to  forward  his  views  in  any  course  of  education  he  might 
prefer,  or  any  profession  he  might  adopt;  and  he  earn- 
estly counselled  the  laAvyer  to  employ  all  his  tact  and 
delicacy  in  conferring  with  one  of  so  proud  and  fiery  a 
temper.  Mr.  Blackwell,  however,  had  no  tact  or  delicacy 
to  employ ;  he  went  to  the  house  of  mourning,  forced  his 
way  to  Philip,  and  the  very  exordium  of  his  harangue, 
which  was  devoted  to  praises  of  the  extraordinary  gener- 
osity and  benevolence  of  his  employer,  mingled  with 
condescending  admonitions  towards  gratitude  from  Philip, 
so  exasperated  the  hoy,  that  Mr.  Blackwell  was  ex- 
tremely glad  to  get  out  of  the  house  with  a  whole  skin. 
He,  however,  did  not  neglect  the  more  formal  part  of  his 
mission,  but  communicated  immediately  with  a  fashiona- 
ble undertaker,  and  gave  orders  for  a  very  genteel 
funeral.  He  thought  that  after  the  funeral  Pliilip  would 
be  in  a  less  excited  state  of  mind,  and  more  likely  to  hear 
reason.  He,  therefore,  deferred  a  second  interview  with 
the  orphan  till  after  that  event ;  and,  in  the  meanwhile, 
despatched  a  letter  to  Mr.  Beaufort,  stating  that  he  had 
attended  to  his  instructions;  that  the  orders  for  the 
funeral  were  given ;  but  that  at  present  Mr.  Philip  Mor- 
ton's mind  was  a  little  disordered,  and  that  he  could  not 
calmly  discuss  the  plans  for  the  future  suggested  by  Mr. 
Beaufort.  He  did  not  doubt,  however,  that  in  another 
interview  all  would  be  arranged  according  to  the  wishes 
his  client  had  so  nobly  conveyed  to  him.  Mr.  Beaufort's 
conscience  on  this  point  was  therefore  set  at  rest. 

VOL.  I. —  10 


146  KIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

It  was  a  dull,  close,  oppressive  morning  upon  whicli 
the  remains  of  Catlierine  Morton  were  consigned  to  the 
grave.  "With  the  preparations  for  the  funeral  Philip 
did  not  interfere;  he  did  not  inquire  by  whose  orders 
all  that  solemnity  of  mutes  and  coaches  and  black 
plumes  and  crape-bands  was  appointed.  If  his  vague 
and  undeveloped  conjecture  ascribed  this  last  and  vain 
attention  to  Robert  Beaufort,  it  neither  lessened  the 
sullen  resentment  he  felt  against  his  luicle,  nor,  on  the 
other  hand,  did  he  conceive  that  he  had  a  right  to  for- 
bid respect  to  the  dead,  though  he  might  reject  service 
for  the  survivor.  Since  Mr.  Blackwell's  visit,  he  had 
remained  in  a  sort  of  apathy  or  torpor  which  seemed  to 
the  people  of  the  house  to  partake  rather  of  indiiference 
than  woe. 

The  funeral  was  over,  and  Philip  had  returned  to 
the  apartments  occupied  by  the  deceased;  and  now,  for 
the  first  time,  he  set  himself  to  examine  what  papers, 
etc.,  she  had  left  behind.  In  an  old  escritoire,  he  found, 
first,  various  packets  of  letters  in  his  father's  hand- 
writing, the  characters  in  many  of  them  faded  by  time. 
He  opened  a  few ;  they  were  the  earliest  love-letters. 
He  did  not  dare  to  read  above  a  few  lines,  —  so  much 
did  their  living  tenderness,  and  breathing,  frank,  hearty 
passion,  contrast  with  the  fate  of  the  adored  one.  In 
those  letters,  the  very  heart  of  the  writer  seemed  to 
beat!  Now  both  hearts  alike  were  stilled.  And  Ghost 
called  vainly  unto  Ghost  ! 

He  came,  at  lengtli,  to  a  letter  in  his  mother's  hand, 
addressed  to  himself,  and  dated  two  days  before  her 
death.  He  went  to  the  window,  and  gasped  in  the 
mists  of  the  sultry  air  for  brcatli.  Below  were  heard 
the  noises  of  London,  —  the  shrill  cries  of  itinerant 
venders,  the  rolling  carts,   the  whoop  of  boys  returned 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  147 

tor  a  while  from  school ;  amidst  all  these  rose  one  loud, 
merry  peal  of  laugliter,  which  drew  his  attention  me- 
chanically to  the  spot  whence  it  came ;  it  was  at  the 
threshold  of  a  puljlic-house,  before  which  stood  the 
hearse  that  had  conveyed  his  mother's  coffin,  and  the 
gay  undertakers  haltuig  there  to  refresh  themselves.  He 
closed  the  window  with  a  groan,  retired  to  the  farthest 
corner  of  the  room,  and  read  as  follows:  — 

Mt  dearest  Philip,  —  When  you  read  this,  I  shall  be  no 
more.  You  and  poor  Sidney  will  have  neither  father  nor 
mother,  nor  fortune,  nor  name.  Heaven  is  more  just  than 
man,  and  in  Heaven  is  my  hope  for  you.  You,  Philip,  are 
already  past  childhood ;  your  nature  is  one  formed,  I  think, 
to  wrestle  successfully  with  the  world.  Guard  against  your 
own  passions,  and  you  may  bid  defiance  to  the  obstacles  that 
will  Ixiset  your  path  in  life.  And  lately,  in  our  reverses, 
Philip,  you  have  so  subdued  those  passions,  so  schooled  the 
pride  and  impetuosity  of  your  childhoo<l,  that  I  have  contem- 
plated your  prospects  with  less  fear  than  I  used  to  do,  even 
when  they  seemed  so  brilliant.  Forgive  me,  my  dear  child,  if 
I  have  concealed  from  you  my  state  of  health,  and  if  my  death 
be  a  sudden  and  unlooked-for  shock.  Do  not  grieve  for  me 
too  long.  For  myself,  my  release  is  indeed  escape  from  the 
prison-house  and  the  chain, — from  bodily  pain  and  mental 
torture,  which  may,  I  fondly  hope,  prove  some  expiation  for 
the  errors  of  a  happier  time.  For  I  did  err,  when,  even  from 
the  least  selfish  motives,  I  suffered  my  union  with  your  father 
to  remain  concealed,  and  thus  ruined  the  hopes  of  those  who 
had  rights  upon  me  equal  even  to  his.  But,  O  Philip  !  beware 
of  the  first  false  steps  into  deceit;  beware,  too,  of  the  passions, 
which  do  not  betray  their  fruit  till  years  and  years  after  the 
leaves  that  look  so  green  and  the  blossoms  that  seem  so  fair. 

I  repeat  my  solemn  injunction  :  do  not  grieve  for  me  ;  but 
strengthen  your  mind  and  heart  to  receive  the  charge  that  I 
now  confide  to  you,  —  my  Sidney,  my  child,  your  brother  f 
He  is  so  soft,  so  gentle;  he  has  been  so  dependent  lor  very  life 


148  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

upon  me,  and  we  fire  parted  now  for  the  first  and  last  time. 
He  is  with  strangers  ;  and  —  and  —  0  Philip,  Philip  !  watch 
over  him  for  the  love  you  bear,  not  only  to  him,  but  to  me  ! 
Be  to  him  a  father  as  well  as  a  brother.  Put  your  stout  heart 
against  the  world,  so  that  you  may  screen  him,  the  weak  child, 
from  its  malice.  He  has  not  your  talents  nor  strength  of 
character  ;  without  you  he  is  nothing.  Live,  toil,  rise  for  his 
Bake  not  less  than  your  own.  H  you  knew  how  this  heart 
beats  as  I  write  to  you,  if  you  could  conceive  what  comfort  I 
take  for  hhn  from  my  confidence  in  you,  you  would  feel  a  new 
spirit,  —  my  spirit,  my  mother-spirit  of  love  and  forethought 
and  vigilance,  enter  into  you  while  you  read.  See  him  when 
I  am  gone, — comfort  and  soothe  him.  Happily  he  is  too 
young  yet  to  know  all  his  loss  ;  and  do  not  let  him  think  im- 
kindly  of  me  in  the  days  to  come,  for  he  is  a  child  now,  and 
they  may  poison  his  mind  against  me  more  easily  than  they 
can  yours.  Think,  if  he  is  unhappy  hereafter,  he  may  forget 
how  I  loved  him,  he  may  curse  those  who  gave  him  birth. 
Forgive  me  all  this,  Philip,  my  son,  and  heed  it  well. 

And  now,  where  you  find  this  letter,  you  will  see  a  key;  it 
opens  a  well  in  the  bureau  in  which  I  have  hoarded  my  little 
savings.  You  will  see  that  I  have  not  died  in  poverty  Take 
what  there  is ;  young  as  you  are,  you  may  want  it  more  now 
than  hereafter.  But  hold  it  in  trust  for  your  brother  as  well 
as  yourself.  If  he  is  harshly  treated  (and  you  will  go  and  see 
him,  and  you  will  remember  that  he  would  writhe  under  what 
you  might  scarcely  feel),  or  if  they  overtask  him  (he  is  so  young 
to  work  yet),  it  may  find  him  a  home  near  you.  God  watch 
over  and  guard  you  both  I  You  are  orphans  now.  But  He 
has  told  even  the  orphans  to  call  him  "  Father  I " 

"When  he  had  read  this  letter,  Pliilip  Morton  fell  upon 
his  knees  and  prayed. 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  149 


CHAPTER  II. 

His  curse !    Dost  comprehend  what  that  word  means, 
Shot  from  a  father's  angry  breath  ? 

James  Shirley  :  The  Brothers. 

This  term  is  fatal,  and  affrights  me.  —  Ibid. 

Those  fond  philosophers  that  magnify 

Our  human  nature       .... 

Conversed  but  little  with  the  world  —  they  knew  not 

The  fierce  vexation  of  community  ! 

Ibid. 

After  he  had  recovered  his  self-possession,  Philip 
opened  the  well  of  the  bureau,  and  was  astonished  and 
atfected  to  find  that  Catherine  had  saved  more  than 
£100.  Alas!  how  much  must  she  have  pinched  herself 
to  have  hoarded  this  little  treasure!  After  burning  his 
father's  love-letters,  and  some  other  papers  which  he 
deemed  useless,  he  made  up  a  little  bundle  of  those 
trifling  effects  belonging  to  the  deceased,  which  he 
valued  as  memorials  and  relics  of  her,  quitted  the  apart- 
ment, and  descended  to  the  parlor  behind  the  shop. 
On  the  way  he  met  with  the  kind  servant,  and,  recalling 
the  grief  that  she  had  manifested  for  his  mother  since 
he  had  been  in  the  house,  he  placed  two  sovereigns  in 
her  hand.  "  And  now,"  said  he,  as  the  servant  wept 
while  he  spoke,  — "now  I  can  bear  to  ask  you  Avhat  I 
have  not  before  done.  How  did  my  poor  mother  die  ? 
Did  she  suffer  much  ?  —  or  —  or  —  " 

"  She  went  off  like  a  lamb,  sir,"  said  the  girl,  drying 
her  eyes.     "  You  see  the  gentleman  had  been  with  her 


150  KIGIIT   AND   MORNING. 

all  the  day,  and  she  was  much  more  easy  and  comfort- 
able in  her  mind  after  he  came." 

"  The  gentleman !     Not  the  gentleman  I  found  here  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear  no!  Not  the  pale,  middle-aged  gentleman 
nurse  and  I  saw  go  down,  as  the  clock  struck  two. 
But  the  young,  soft-spoken  gentleman  who  came  in  the 
morning,  and  said  as  how  he  was  a  relation.  He  stayed 
with  her  till  she  slept;  and  when  she  Avoke,  she  smiled 
in  his  face.  I  shall  never  forget  that  smile,  —  for  I  was 
standing  on  the  other  side,  as  it  might  be  here,  and  the 
doctor  was  by  the  window,  pouring  out  the  doctor's 
stuff  in  the  glass ;  and  so  she  looked  on  the  young  gen- 
tleman, and  then  looked  round  at  us  all,  and  shook  her 
head  very  gently,  but  did  not  speak.  And  the  gentle- 
man asked  her  how  she  felt,  and  she  took  both  his 
hands  and  kissed  them;  and  then  he  put  his  arms  round 
and  raised  her  up,  to  take  the  physic  like,  and  she  said 
then,  'You  will  never  forget  them?^  and  he  said, 
*  Never.'     I  don't  know  what  that  meant,  sir!  " 

"Well,  well,  — goon." 

"  And  her  head  fell  back  on  his  buzzom,  and  she 
looked  so  happy ;  and  when  the  doctor  came  to  the  bed- 
side, she  was  quite  gone." 

"  And  the  stranger  had  my  post  I  No  matter ;  God 
bless  him,  —  God  bless  him.  Who  was  he;  what  was 
his  name  1  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir;  he  did  not  say.  He  stayed  after 
the  doctor  went,  and  cried  very  bitterly;  he  took  on 
more  than  you  did,  sir." 

"  Ay." 

"  And  the  other  gentleman  came  just  as  he  was  agoing, 
and  they  didnotseem  to  like  each  otlier;  for  I  heard  him 
through  the  wall,  as  nurse  and  I  Avere  in  the  next  room, 
speak  as  if  he  was  scolding ;  but  he  did  not  stay  long. " 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  151 

"  And  lias  never  been  seen  since  ?  " 

"No,  sir!  Perhaps  missus  can  tell  you  more  about 
him.  But  won't  you  take  something,  sir?  Do, — you 
look  so  pale." 

Philip,  without  speaking,  pushed  her  gently  aside, 
and  went  slowly  down  the  stairs.  He  entered  the  par- 
lor, where  two  or  three  children  were  seated,  playing 
at  dominos;  he  despatched  one  for  their  mother,  the 
mistress  of  the  shop,  who  came  in,  and  dropped  him  a 
courtesy,  with  a  very  grave,  sad  face,  as  was  proper. 

"  I  am  going  to  leave  your  house,  ma'am ;  and  I  wish 
to  settle  any  little  arrears  of  rent,  etc." 

"Oh,  sir!  don't  mention  it,"  said  the  landlady;  and 
as  she  spoke,  she  took  a  piece  of  paper  from  her  bosom, 
very  neatly  folded,  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  "  And 
here,  sir,"  she  added,  taking  from  the  same  depository 
a  card,  —  "here  is  the  card  left  by  the  gentleman  who 
saw  to  the  funeral.  He  called  half  an  hour  ago,  and 
bade  me  say,  with  his  compliments,  that  he  would  wait 
on  you  to-morrow  at  eleven  o'clock.  So  I  hope  you 
won't  go  yet:  for  I  think  he  means  to  settle  everything 
for  you ;  he  said  as  much,  sir. " 

Philip  glanced  over  the  card,  and  read,  "  Mr.  George 
Blackwell,  Lincoln's  Inn."  His  brow  grew  dark,  —  he 
let  the  card  fall  on  the  ground,  put  his  foot  on  it  with 
a  quiet  scorn,  and  muttered  to  himself,  "  The  lawyer 
shall  not  bribe  me  out  of  my  curse!"  He  turned  to 
the  total  of  the  bill,  — not  heavy,  for  poor  Catherine  had 
regularly  defrayed  the  expense  of  her  scanty  mainte- 
nance and  humble  lodging, — paid  the  money,  and,  as 
the  landlady  wrote  the  receipt,  he  asked,  "  Who  was  the 
gentleman  —  the  younger  gentleman  —  who  called  ia 
the  morning  of  the  day  my  mother  died  1 " 

"Oh,  sir!    I  am  so   sorry  I  did  not  get   his   name. 


152  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

Mr.  Perkins  said  that  he  was  some  relation.  Very 
odd  he  has  never  been  since.  But  he  '11  be  sure  to  call 
again,  sir;  you  had  much  better  stay  here." 

"  No :  it  does  not  signify.  All  that  he  could  do  is 
done.     But  stay,  give  him  this  note,  if  he  should  call." 

Philip,  taking  the  pen  from  the  landlady's  hand,  has- 
tily wrote  (wliile  Mrs.  Lacy  went  to  bring  him  sealing- 
wax  and  a  light)  these  words :  — 

I  caimot  guess  who  you  are  :  they  say  that  you  call  yourself 
a  relation  ;  that  must  be  some  mistake.  I  knew  not  that  my 
poor  mother  had  relations  so  kind.  But,  whoever  you  be, 
you  soothed  her  last  hours,  —  she  died  in  your  arms  ;  and  if 
ever  —  years,  long  years  hence  —  we  should  chance  to  meet, 
and  I  can  do  anything  to  aid  another,  my  blood  and  my  life 
and  my  heart  and  my  soul,  all  are  slaves  to  your  will.  If  you 
be  really  of  her  kindred,  I  commend  to  you  my  brother  :  he  is 

at ,  with  Mr.  Morton.     If  you  can  serve  him,  my  mother's 

soul  will  watch  over  yoa  as  a  guardian  angel.  As  for  me,  I 
ask  no  help  from  any  one  ;  I  go  into  the  world,  and  will  carve 
out  my  own  way.  So  much  do  I  shrink  from  the  thought  of 
charity  from  others,  that  I  do  not  believe  I  could  bless  you, 
as  I  do  now,  if  your  kindness  to  me  did  not  close  with  the 
stone  upon  my  mother's  grave. 

Philip. 

He  sealed  this  letter,  and  gave  it  to  the  woman. 

"  Oh,  by  the  by,"  said  she,  "  I  had  forgot;  the  doctor 
said  that  if  you  would  send  for  him,  he  would  be  most 
happy  to  call  on  you,  and  give  you  any  advice." 

"Very  well." 

«  And  what  shall  I  say  to  Mr.  Blackwell  ?  " 

"  That  he  may  tell  his  employer  to  remember  our  last 
interview." 

With  that,  Philip  took  up  his  bundle  and  strode  from 
the  house.  He  went  iirst  to  the  churchyard,  where  his 
mother's  remains  had  been  that  day  interred.     It  was 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  153 

near  at  hand,  a  quiet,  almost  a  rural  spot.  The  gate 
stood  ajar,  for  there  was  a  public  path  through  the 
churchyard,  and  Philip  entered  with  a  noiseless  tread. 
It  was  tlien  near  evening;  the  sun  had  broken  out  from 
the  mists  of  tlie  earlier  day,  and  the  westering  rays  shone 
bright  and  holy  upon  the  solemn  place. 

"Mother!  mother!"  sobbed  the  orphan,  as  he  fell 
prostrate  before  that  fresh  green  mound :  "  here  —  here  I 
have  come  to  repeat  my  oath,  to  swear  again  that  I  will 
be  faithful  to  the  charge  you  have  intrusted  to  your 
wretched  son!  And  at  this  hour  I  dare  ask  if  there 
be  on  this  earth  one  more  miserable  and  forlorn?  " 

As  words  to  this  effect  struggled  from  liis  lips,  a  loud, 
shrill  voice,  —  the  cracked,  painful  voice  of  weak  age 
wrestling  with  strong  passion,  rose  close  at  hand. 

"  Away,  reprobate!  thou  art  accursed!  " 

Philip  started,  and  shuddered  as  if  the  words  were 
addressed  to  himself,  and  from  the  grave.  But,  as  he 
rose  on  his  knee,  and,  tossing  the  wild  hair  from  his 
eyes,  looked  confusedly  round,  he  saw,  at  a  short  dis- 
tance, and  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall,  two  forms:  the 
one,  an  old  man  with  gray  hair,  who  was  seated  on  a 
crumbling,  wooden  tomb,  facing  the  setting  sun;  the 
other,  a  man  apparently  yet  in  the  vigor  of  life,  who 
appeared  bent  as  in  humble  supplication.  The  old 
man's  hands  were  outstretched  over  the  head  of  the 
younger,  as  if  suiting  terrible  action  to  the  terrible 
words,  and,  after  a  moment's  pause,  — ■  a  moment,  but 
it  seemed  far  longer  to  Philip,  —  there  was  heard  a  deep, 
wild,  ghastly  howl  from  a  dog  that  cowered  at  the  old 
man's  feet,  —  a  howl,  perhaps,  of  fear  at  the  passion  of  his 
master,  which  the  animal  might  associate  with  danger. 

"Father!  father!"  said  the  suppliant,  reproachfully, 
"  your  very  dog  rebukes  your  curse  ?  " 


154  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"Be  dumb!  My  dog!  What  hast  thou  left  me  on 
earth  but  him?  Thou  hast  made  me  loathe  the  sight  of 
friends,  for  thou  hast  made  me  loathe  mine  own  name. 
Thou  hast  covered  it  with  disgrace;  thou  hast  turned 
mine  old  age  into  a  by-word,  —  thy  crimes  leave  me 
solitary  in  the  midst  of  my  shame!  " 

"  It  is  many  years  since  we  met,  father;  we  may  never 
meet  again,  —  shall  we  part  thus?  " 

"  Thus,  aha!  "  said  the  old  man,  in  a  tone  of  wither- 
ing sarcasm :  "  I  comprehend,  —  you  are  come  for 
money!  " 

At  this  taunt  the  son  started  as  if  stung  by  a  serpent, 
raised  his  head  to  its  full  height,  folded  his  arms,  and 
replied,  — 

"  Sir,  you  wrong  me :  for  more  than  twenty  years  I 
have  maintained  myself,  —  no  matter  how,  but  without 
taxing  you,  —  and  now  I  felt  remorse  for  having  suf- 
fered you  to  discard  me, — now,  when  you  are  old  and 
helpless,  and,  I  heard,  blind,  and  you  might  want  aid, 
even  from  your  poor,  good-for-nothing  son.  But  I  have 
done.  Forget  —  not  my  sins,  but  this  interview.  Ke- 
peal  your  curse,  father:  I  have  enough  on  my  head 
without  yours;  and  so  let  the  son  at  least  bless  the 
father  who  curses  him.     Farewell !  " 

The  speaker  turned  as  he  thus  said,  with  a  voice  that 
trembled  at  the  close,  and  brushed  rapidly  by  Philip, 
whom  he  did  not,  however,  appear  to  perceive;  but 
Philip,  by  the  last  red  beam  of  the  sun,  saw  again  that 
marked,  storm-beaten  face  which  it  was  difficult,  once 
seen,  to  forget,  and  recognized  the  stranger  on  Avhose 
breast  he  had  slept  the  night  of  his  fatal  visit  to  K . 

The  old  man's  imperfect  vision  did  not  detect  the 
departure  of  his  son,  but  his  face  changed  and  softened 
as  the  latter  strode  silently  through  the  rank  grass. 


NIGHT   AND    MoRNING.  155 

«  William!  "  he  said  at  last,  gently,  —"  William:  " 
and  the  tears  rolled  down  his  furrowed  cheeks ;  "  my 
son!  "  hut  that  son  was  gone:  the  old  man  listened  for 
reply ,  —  none  came.  "  He  has  left  me,  —  poor  William ! 
—  we  shall  never  meet  again;  "  and  he  sank  once  more 
on  the  old  tombstone,  dumb,  rigid,  motionless,  —  an 
image  of  Time  himself  in  his  own  domain  of  graves. 
The  dog  crept  closer  to  his  master,  and  licked  his  hand. 
Philip  stood  for  a  moment  in  thoughtful  silence;  his 
exclamation  of  despair  had  been  answered  as  by  his  better 
angel.  There  teas  a  being  more  miserable  than  himself; 
and  the  accursed  would  have  envied  the  bereaved! 

The  twilight  liad  closed  in ;  the  earliest  star  —  the  star 
of  memory  and  love,  the  Hesperus  hymned  by  every 
poet  since  tlie  world  began  —  was  fair  in  the  arch  of 
heaven,  as  Philip  quitted  the  spot,  with  a  spirit  more 
reconciled  to  the  future,  more  softened,  chastened,  at- 
tuned to  gentle  and  pious  thoughts,  than  perhaps  ever 
yet  had  made  his  soul  dominant  over  the  deep  and  dark 
tide  of  his  gloomy  passions.  He  went  thence  to  a  neigh- 
boring sculptor,  and  paid  beforehand  for  a  plain  tablet 
to  be  placed  above  the  grave  he  had  left.  He  had  just 
quitted  that  shop,  in  the  same  street,  not  many  doors 
removed  from  the  house  in  which  his  mother  had 
breathed  her  last.  He  was  pausing  by  a  crossing,  irreso- 
lute whether  to  repair  at  once  to  the  home  assigned  to 
Sidney,  or  to  seek  some  shelter  in  town  for  that  night, 
when  three  men  who  were  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
-way  suddenly  caught  sight  of  him. 

"  There  he  is,  — ^ there  he  is;  stop,  sir!  — stop!  " 

Philip  heard  these  words,  looked  up,  and  recognized 
the  voice  and  the  person  of  Mr.  Plaskwith;  the  bo(jk- 
seller  was  accompanied  by  Mr.  Plimmins  and  a  sturdy, 
ill-favored  stranger. 


156  NIGHT   AND    MOliNING. 

A  nameless  feeling  of  fear,  rage,  and  disgust  seized 
the  unhappy  boy,  and  at  the  same  moment  a  ragged 
vagabond  wliispered  to  him,  "  Stump  it,  my  cove;  that 's 
a  Bow  Street  runner. " 

Then  there  shot  through  Philip's  mind  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  money  he  had  seized,  though  but  to  dash 
away:  was  he  now — he,  still,  to  his  own  conviction, 
the  heir  of  an  ancient  and  spotless  name  —  to  be  hunted 
as  a  thief;  or,  at  the  best,  what  right  over  his  person 
and  his  liberty  had  he  given  to  his  task-master  1  Igno- 
rant of  the  law,  the  law  only  seemed  to  him,  as  it  ever 
does  to  the  ignorant  and  the  friendless,  — a  foe.  Quicker 
than  lightning  these  thoughts,  which  it  takes  so  many 
words  to  describe,  flashed  through  the  storm  and  dark- 
ness of  his  breast;  and  at  the  very  instant  that  Mv. 
Plimmins  had  laid  hands  on  his  shoulder  his  resolution 
was  formed.  The  instinct  of  self  beat  loud  at  his  heart. 
With  a  bound,  —  a  spring  that  sent  ]\rr.  Plimmins 
sprawling  in  the  kennel,  he  darted  across  the  road  and 
lied  down  an  opposite  lane. 

"Stop  him!  stop!"  cried  the  bookseller,  and  the 
officer  rushed  after  him  with  almost  equal  speed.  Lane 
after  lane,  alley  after  alley,  fled  Philip,  dodging, 
"winding,  breathless,  panting;  and  lane  after  lane,  alley 
after  alley,  thickened  at  his  heels  the  crowd  that  pur- 
sued. The  idle  and  the  curious  and  the  oflicious  — 
ragged  boys,  ragged  men,  from  stall  and  from  cellar, 
from  corner  and  from  crossing,  joined  in  that  delicious 
chase  which  runs  down  young  Error  till  it  sinks,  too 
often,  at  the  door  of  the  jail  or  the  foot  of  the  gallows. 
But  Philip  slackened  his  pace;  he  began  to  distance  his 
pursuers.  He  was  now  in  a  street  which  they  had 
not  yet  entered,  — a  quiet  street,  with  few,  if  any  shops. 
Before  the  threshold  of  a  better  kiu<l  of  public-house,  or 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  157 

rather  tavern,  to  judge  by  its  appearance,  lounged  two 
men;  and  wliile  Philip  flew  on,  the  cry  of  "  Stop  him!  " 
had  changed,  as  the  shout  passed  to  new  voices,  into 
"  Stop  the  thief!  "  —  that  cry  yet  howled  in  the  dis- 
tance. One  of  tlie  loungers  seized  him;  Philip,  des- 
perate and  ferocious,  struck  at  him  with  all  his  force: 
but  the  blow  was  scarcely  felt  by  that  Herculean  frame. 

"  Pish,"  said  the  man,  scornfully,  "  I  am  no  spy;  if 
you  run  from  justice  I  would  help  you  to  a  sign-post." 

Struck  by  the  voice,  Philip  looked  hard  at  the  speaker. 
It  was  the  voice  of  the  accursed  son. 

"  Save  me !  you  remember  me  1  "  said  the  orphan, 
faintly. 

"Ah!  I  think  I  do;  poor  lad!  Follow  me,  this 
way !  " 

The  stranger  turned  within  the  tavern ,  passed  the  hall 
through  a  sort  of  corridor  that  led  into  a  back-yard 
which  opened  upon  a  nest  of  courts  or  passages. 

"  You  are  safe  for  the  present;  I  will  take  you  where 
you  can  tell  me  all  at  your  ease ,  —  see !  "  As  he  spoke 
they  emerged  into  an  open  street,  and  the  guide  pointed 
to  a  row  of  hackney-coaches.  "Be  quick,  —  get  in. 
Coachman,  drive  fast  to  —  "  Philip  did  not  hear  the  rest 
of  the  direction. 

Our  story  returns  to  Sidney. 


158  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Nous  vons  mettrons  a  couvert, 
Kepondit  le  pot  de  fer : 
Si  quelque  matiere  dure 

Vous  menace  d'aventure, 
Eutre  deux  je  passerai, 
Et  du  coup  vous  sauverai. 

Le  pot  de  terre  en  souffre !  ^ 


La  Fontaine. 


"Sidney,  come  here,  sir!  What  have  you  been  at? 
You  have  torn  your  frill  into  tatters!  How  did  you  do 
this?     Come,  sir,  no  lies." 

"  Indeed,  ma'am,  it  was  not  my  fault.  I  just  put  my 
head  out  of  the  window  to  see  the  coach  go  by,  and  a 
nail  caught  me  here." 

"  Why,  you  little  plague!  you  have  scratched  yourself, 
—  you  are  always  in  miscliief.  What  business  had  you 
to  look  after  the  coach  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Sidney,  hanging  his  head 
ruefully. 

"La,  mother!  "  cried  the  youngest  of  the  cousins,  a 
square-built,  ruddy,  coarse-featured  urchin,  about  Sid- 
ney's age, — "la,  mother,  he  never  see  a  coach  in  the 
street  when  we  are  at  play  but  he  runs  arter  it." 

"After,  not  arter"  said  Mr.  Roger  Morton,  taking 
the  pipe  from  his  mouth. 

^  We,  replied  the  Iron  Pot,  will  shield  you :  should  any  hard 
substance  menace  you  with  danger,  I  '11  intervene,  and  save  you 
from  the  shock.  .  .  .  The  Earthen  Pot  was  the  sufferer  ! 


KIGHT   AND   MOKNING.  159 

"Why  do  you  go  after  the  coaches,  Sidney?"  said 
Mrs.  Morton ;  "  it  is  very  naughty :  you  will  he  run 
over  some  day." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Sidney,  who  during  the  whole 
colloquy  had  been  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

"  '  Yes,  ma'am,'  and  '  no,  ma'am; '  you  have  no  more 
manners  than  a  cobbler's  boy." 

"  Don't  tease  the  child,  my  dear;  he  is  crying,"  said 
Mr.  Morton,  more  authoritatively  than  usual.  "  Come 
here,  my  man!  "  and  the  worthy  uncle  took  him  in  his 
lap  and  held  his  glass  of  brandy-and-water  to  his  lips; 
Sidney,  too  frightened  to  refuse,  sipped  hurriedly,  keep- 
ing his  large  eyes  fixed  on  his  aunt,  as  children  do 
when  they  fear  a  cuff. 

"  You  spoil  the  boy  more  than  you  do  your  own  flesh 
and  blood,"  said  Mrs.  Morton,  greatly  displeased. 

Here  Tom,  the  youngest-born  before  described,  put 
his  mouth  to  his  mother's  ear,  and  whispered  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  by  all,  "  He  runs  arter  the  coach 
'cause  he  thinks  his  ma  may  be  in  it.  Who  's  home- 
sick, 1  should  like  to  know?     Ba!  Baa!  " 

The  boy  pointed  his  finger  over  his  mother's  shoulder, 
and  the  other  children  burst  into  a  loud  giggle. 

"  Leave  the  room,  all  of  you,  —  leave  the  room,"  said 
Mr.  Morton,  rising  angrily  and  stamping  his  foot. 

The  children,  who  were  in  great  awe  of  their  father, 
huddled  and  hustled  each  other  to  the  door;  but  Tom, 
who  went  last,  bold  in  his  mother's  favor,  popped  his 
head  through  the  doorway,  and  cried,  "  Good-by,  little 
homesick !  " 

A  sudden  slap  in  tlie  face  from  his  father  changed  his 
chuckle  into  a  very  different  kind  of  music,  and  a  loud, 
indignant  sob  was  heard  without  for  some  moments 
after  the  door  was  closed. 


160  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

"  If  that 's  the  way  you  behave  to  your  children,  Mr. 
Morton,  I  vow  you  sha'n't  have  any  more,  if  I  can 
help  it.  Don't  come  near  me,  —  don't  touch  me!  "  and 
]\Irs.  Morton  assumed  the  resentful  air  of  offended 
beauty. 

"  Pshaw!  "  growled  the  spouse,  and  he  reseated  him- 
self and  resumed  his  pipe.  There  was  a  dead  silence. 
Sidney  crouched  near  his  uncle,  looking  very  pale. 
Mrs.  ]\Iorton,  who  was  knitting,  knitted  away  with  the 
excited  energy  of  nervous  irritation. 

"  Eing  the  bell,  Sidney,"  said  Mr.  Morton.  The 
boy  obeyed,  —  the  parlor-maid  entered.  "  Take  Master 
Sidney  to  his  room;  keep  the  boys  away  from  him, 
and  give  him  a  large  slice  of  bread  and  jam,  Martha." 

"Jam,  indeed!  —  treacle,"  said  Mrs.  Morton. 

"Jam,  Martha!  "  repeated  the  uncle,  authoritatively. 

"  Treacle  I  "  reiterated  the  aunt. 

"Jam,  I  say!  " 

"Treacle,  you  hear:  and  for  that  matter,  Martha  has 
no  jam  to  give!  " 

The  husband  had  nothing  more  to  say. 

"Good-night,  Sidney;  there's  a  good  boy,  go  and 
kiss  your  aunt  and  make  your  bow;  and  I  say,  my  lad, 
don't  mind  those  plagues.  I  '11  talk  to  them  to-morrow, 
that  I  will;  no  one  shall  be  unkind  to  you  in  my 
house. " 

Sidney  muttered  something,  and  went  timidly  up  to 
Mrs.  Morton.  His  look,  so  gentle  and  subdued;  his 
eyes  full  of  tears;  his  pretty  mouth,  which,  though 
silent,  pleaded  so  eloquently;  his  willingness  to  forgive, 
and  his  wish  to  be  forgiven,  —  might  have  melted  many 
a  heart  harder,  perhaps,  than  Mrs.  Morton's.  But 
there  reigned  what  are  worse  than  hardness,  —  prejudice 
und  wounded  vanity,  maternal  vanity.     His  contrast  to 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  161 

her  own  rough,  coarse  children,  grated  on  her,  and  set 
the  teeth  of  her  mind  on  edge. 

"There,  child,  don't  tread  on  my  gown;  you  are  so 
awkward.  Say  your  prayers,  and  don't  throw  off  the 
counterpane!     I  don't  like  slovenly  boys." 

Sidney  put  his  finger  in  his  mouth,  drooped,  and 
vanished. 

"Now,  Mrs.  M. ,"  said  Mr.  Morton,  abruptly,  and 
knocking  out  the  ashes  of  his  pipe,  — "  now,  Mrs.  M. , 
one  word  for  all ;  I  have  told  you  that  I  promised  poor 
Catherine  to  be  a  father  to  that  child,  and  it  goes  to  my 
heart  to  see  him  so  snubbed.  Why  you  dislike  him  I 
can't  guess  for  the  life  of  me.  I  never  saw  a  sweeter- 
tempered  child." 

"  Go  on,  sir,  —  go  on :  make  your  personal  reflections 
on  your  own  lawful  wife.  They  don't  hurt  me,  —  oh, 
no,  not  at  all !  Sweet-tempered,  indeed ;  I  suppose  your 
own  children  are  not  sweet-tempered  1  " 

"That's  neither  here  nor  there,"  said  Mr.  Morton: 
"my  own  children  are  such  as  God  made  them,  and  I 
am  very  well  satisfied." 

"  Indeed  you  mai/  be  proud  of  such  a  family ;  and 
to  think  of  the  pains  I  have  taken  with  them,  and  how 
I  have  saved  you  in  nurses,  and  the  bad  times  I  have 
had ;  and  now,  to  find  their  noses  put  out  of  joint  bj'  that 
little  mischief-making  interloper.  It  is  too  bad  of  you, 
Mr.  Morton ;  you  will  break  ray  heart,  —  that  you  will !  " 

Mrs.  Morton  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes  and 
sobbed. 

The  husband  was  moved ;  he  got  up  and  attempted  to 
take  her  hand.  "  Indeed,  Margaret,  I  did  not  mean  to 
vex  you. " 

"  And  I  who  have  been  such  a  fa-fai-faithful  wi-wi- 
wif e ,  and  brought  you  such  a  deal  of  mon-mon-money 

VOL.  I. — 11 


162  NIGHT  AND    MORNING. 

and  always  stud-stud-studied  your  interests ;  many  's  the 
time  wlien  you  have  been  fast  asleep,  that  I  have  sat 
\ip  half  the  night  men-raen-mending  the  house  linen ; 
and  you  have  not  been  the  same  man,  Roger,  since 
that  boy  came!  " 

"Well,  well!  "  said  the  good  man,  quite  overcome, 
and  fairly  taking  her  round  the  waist  and  kissing  her; 
"  no  words  between  us ;  it  makes  life  quite  unpleasant. 
If  it  pains  you  to  have  Sidney  here,  I  will  put  him  to 
some  school  in  the  town,  where  they  '11  be  kind  to  him. 
Only,  if  you  would,  Margaret,  for  my  sake,  — old  girl! 
come,  now!  there's  a  darling! — just  be  more  tender 
with  him.  You  see  he  frets  so  after  his  mother. 
Think  how  little  Tom  would  fret  if  he  was  away  from 
you!     Poor  little  Tom!  " 

"  La!  Mr.  Morton,  you  are  such  a  man!  —  there  's  no 
resisting  your  ways!  You  know  how  to  come  over  me, 
—  don't  you  ?  " 

And  Mrs.  Morton  smiled  benignly,  as  she  escaped 
from  his  conjugal  arms  and  smoothed  her  cap. 

Peace  thus  restored,  Mr.  Morton  refilled  his  pipe,  and 
the  good  lady,  after  a  pause,  resumed,  in  a  very  mild, 
conciliatory  tone,  — 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what  it  is,  Roger,  that  vexes  me  with 
that  there  child.  He  is  so  deceitful,  and  he  does  tell 
such  fibs!  " 

"Fibs!  that  is  a  very  bad  fault,"  said  Mr.  Morton, 
gravely.     "  That  must  be  corrected. " 

"  It  was  but  the  other  day  that  I  saw  him  break  a  pane 
of  glass  in  the  shop ;  and  when  I  taxed  him  with  it,  he 
denied  it,  —  and  with  such  a  face!  I  can't  abide  story- 
telling." 

"  Let  me  know  the  next  story  he  tells;  I  '11  cure  him," 
said  Mr.   Morton,  sternly.     "You  know  how  I    broke 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  163 

Tom  of  it.  Spare  the  rod,  and  spoil  the  child.  And 
when  I  promised  to  be  kind  to  the  boy,  of  course  I  did 
not  mean  that  I  was  not  to  take  care  of  his  morals,  and 
see  that  he  grew  up  an  honest  man.  Tell  truth,  and 
shame  the  devil,  — that's  my  motto." 

"  Spoke  like  yourself,  Roger!  "  said  Mrs.  Morton, 
with  great  animation.  "  But  you  see  he  has  not  had 
the  advantage  of  such  a  father  as  you.  I  wonder  your 
sister  don't  write  to  you.  Some  people  make  a  great  fuss 
about  their  feelings;  but  out  of  sight,  out  of  mind." 

"  I  hope  she  is  not  ill.  Poor  Catherine !  she  looked 
in  a  very  bad  way  when  she  was  here,"  said  Mr.  ]Mor- 
ton ;  and  he  turned  uneasily  to  the  fireplace  and  sighed. 

Here  tlie  servant  entered  with  the  supper-tray,  and  the 
conversation  fell  upon  other  topics. 

Mrs.  Roger  Morton's  charge  against  Sidney  was,  alas! 
too  true.  He  had  acquired,  under  that  roof,  a  terrible 
habit  of  telling  stories.  He  had  never  incurred  that 
vice  with  his  mother,  because  then  and  there  he  had 
nothing  to  fear ;  now,  he  had  everything  to  fear,  —  the 
grim  aunt,  even  the  quiet,  kind,  cold,  austere  uncle, 
the  apprentices,  the  strange  servants,  and,  oh!  more 
than  all,  those  hard-eyed,  loud-laughing  tormentors, 
the  boys  of  his  own  age!  Naturally  timid,  severity 
made  him  actually  a  coward;  and,  when  tlie  nerves 
tremble,  a  lie  sounds  as  surely  as,  when  I  vibrate  that 
wire,  the  bell  at  the  end  of  it  will  ring.  Beware  of 
the  man  who  has  been  roughly  treated  as  a  child. 

The  day  after  the  conference  just  narrated,  Mr.  Mor- 
ton, who  was  subject  to  erysipelas,  had  taken  a  little 
cooling  medicine.  He  breakfasted,  therefore,  later  than 
usual,  —  after  the  rest  of  the  family;  and  at  this  meal 
—  pour  lu'i  soiilager  —  he  ordered  the  luxury  of  a 
muffin.     Now  it  so  chanced,  that  he  had  only  finished 


104  NIGHT   AND   MOKNING. 

half  the  muffin,  and  drunk  one  cup  of  tea,  when  he  was 
called  into  the  sliop  by  a  customer  of  great  importance, 

—  a  prosy  old  lady,  who  always  gave  her  orders  with 
remarkable  precision,  and  who  valued  herself  on  a 
character  for  affalnlity,  which  she  maintained  by  never 
buying  a  penny  ribbon  without  asking  the  shopman  how 
all  his  family  were,  and  talking  news  about  every  other 
family  in  the  place.  At  the  time  Mr.  Morton  left  the 
parlor,  Sidney  and  Master  Tom  were  therein,  seated  on 
two  stools,  and  casting  up  division  sums  on  their  re- 
spective slates,  —  a  point  of  education  to  which  Mr.  Mor- 
ton attended  with  great  care.  As  soon  as  his  father's 
back  was  turned.  Master  Tom's  eyes  wandered  from  the 
slate  to  the  muffin,  as  it  leered  at  him  from  the  slop- 
basin.  Xever  did  Pythian  sibyl,  seated  above  the  bub- 
bling spring,  utter  more  oracular  eloquence  to  her  priest, 
than  did  that  muffin  —  at  least  the  parts  of  it  yet  extant 

—  utter  to  the  fascinated  senses  of  Master  Tom.  First 
he  sighed ;  then  he  moved  roimd  on  his  stool ;  then  he 
got  up ;  then  he  peered  at  the  muffin  from  a  respectful 
distance;  then  he  gradually  approached,  and  walked 
round,  and  round,  and  round  it,  —  his  eyes  getting 
bigger  and  bigger;  then  he  peeped  through  the  glass-door 
into  the  shop,  and  saw  his  father  busily  engaged  with 
the  old  lady ;  then  he  began  to  calculate  and  philoso- 
phize ,  —  perhaps  his  father  had  done  breakfast ;  perhaps 
he  would  not  come  back  at  all;  if  he  came  back,  he 
would  not  miss  one  corner  of  the  muffin;  and  if  he  did 
miss  it,  why  should  Tom  be  supposed  to  have  taken  it? 
As  he  thus  communed  with  himself,  he  drew  nearer  into 
the  fatal  vortex,  and  at  last,  with  a  desperate  plunge, 
he  seized  the  triangular  temptation :  — 

"  And  ere  a  man  had  power  to  say  '  Behold !  * 
The  jaws  of  Thomas  had  devoured  it  up." 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  165 

Sidney,  disturbed  from  his  studies  by  the  agitation  of 
his  companion,  witnessed  this  proceeding  with  great  and 
conscientious  alarm.  "Oh,  Tom!"  said  he,  "  wliat 
will  your  papa  say  ?  " 

"Look  at  that!"  said  Tom,  putting  his  fist  under 
Sidney's  reluctant  nose.  "  If  father  misses  it,  you  '11 
say  the  cat  took  it.  If  you  don't,  —  my  eye!  what  a 
wapping  I  '11  give  you!  " 

Here  Mr.  Morton's  voice  was  heard,  Avishing  the  lady 
"  Good-morning!"  and  Master  Tom,  thinking  it  better 
to  leave  the  credit  of  the  invention  solely  to  Sidney, 
whispered,  "Say  I'm  gone  upstairs  for  my  pocket- 
hanker,"  and  hastily  absconded. 

Mr.  Morton,  already  in  a  very  bad  humor,  partly  at 
the  effects  of  the  cooling  medicine,  partly  at  the  suspen- 
sion of  his  breakfast,  stalked  into  the  parlor.  His  tea 
—  the  second  cup  already  poured  out  —  was  cold.  He 
turned  towards  the  muffin,  and  missed  the  lost  piece  at  a 
glance. 

"  Who  has  been  at  my  muffin?  "  said  he,  in  a  voice 
that  seemed  to  Sidney  like  the  voice  he  had  always 
supposed  an  ogre  to  possess.  "  Have  you.  Master 
Sidney  1  " 

"  N-n-no,  sir;  indeed,  sir!  " 
"  Then  Tom  has.     Where  is  he  ?  " 
"  Gone  upstairs  for  his  handkerchief,  sir." 
"  Did  he  take  my  muffin  1     Speak  the  truth !  " 
"  Ko,  sir;  it  was  the  —  it  was  the  —  the  cat,  sir!  " 
"  Oh,  you  wicked,  wicked  boy!  "  cried  Mrs.  Morton, 
who   had   followed    her    husband    into   the   shop ;   "  the 
cat  kittened  last  night,  and  is  locked  up  in  the  coal- 
cellar!  " 

"Come  here.  Master  Sidney!  ISTo!  —  first  go  down, 
Margaret,  and  see  if  the  cat  is  in  the  cellar;  it  might 


1G6  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

have  got  out,  Mrs.  M. ,"  said  Mr.  IMorton,  just,  even  in 
his  wrath. 

]Mrs.  Morton  went,  and,  there  was  a  dead  silence, 
except  indeed  in  Sidney's  heart,  Avhich  beat  louder 
than  a  clock  ticks.  Mr.  Morton,  meanwhile,  went  to  a 
little  cupboard;  while  still  there,  Mrs.  Morton  returned. 
The  cat  was  in  the  cellar,  the  key  turned  on  her,  —  in 
no  mood  to  eat  muffins,  poor  thing! — she  would  not 
even  lap  her  milk!  — like  her  mistress,  she  had  had  a 
very  bad  time! 

"  ISTow  come  here,  sir!"  said  Mr.  Morton,  with- 
drawing himself  from  the  cupboard,  with  a  small  horse- 
wliip  in  his  hand,  "  I  will  teach  you  how  to  speak 
the  truth  in  future!  Confess  that  you  have  told  a 
lie!" 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  was  a  lie!  Pray  —  pray  forgive  me;  but 
Tom  made  me!  " 

"  What !  when  poor  Tom  is  upstairs  ?  —  worse  and 
worse!  "  said  Mrs.  Morton,  lifting  up  her  hands  and 
eyes.     "  What  a  viper!  " 

"  For  shame ,  boy ,  —  for  shame !  Take  that  —  and  that 
—  and  that  —  " 

Writhing,  shrinking,  still  more  terrified  than  hurt, 
the  poor  child  cowered  beneath  the  lash. 

"  M'amma!  —  mamma!  "  he  cried  at  last,  "  oh,  why  — 
why  did  you  leave  me  1  " 

At  these  words  Mr.  Morton  stayed  his  hand,  the  whip 
fell  to  the  ground. 

"Yet  it  is  all  for  the  boy's  good,"  he  muttered. 
"  There,  child,  I  hope  this  is  the  last  time.  There, 
yo\i  are  not  mucli  hurt.      Zounds,  don't  cry  so!  " 

"  He  will  alarm  the  whole  street,"  said  Mrs.  Morton; 
"T  never  see  such  a  child!  Here,  take  this  parcel  to 
Mrs.  pjirnie's;  you  know  the  house,  —  only  next  street, 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  167 

and  dry  your  eyes  before  you  get  there.  Don't  go 
through  the  shop ;  this  way  out. " 

She  pushed  the  child,  still  sobbing  with  a  vehemence 
that  she  could  not  comprehend,  through  the  private 
passage  into  the  street,  and  returned  to  her  husband. 

"  You  are  convinced  now ,  Mr.  M.  1 " 

"  Pshaw!  ma'am;  don't  talk.  But,  to  be  sure,  that 's 
how  I  cured  Tom  of  fibbing.  The  tea  's  as  cold  as  a 
stone!  " 


168  NIGHT   AND   MOKNING. 


CHAPTER  rV. 

Le  bien  nous  le  faisons :  le  mal  c'est  la  Fortune. 
On  a  toujours  raison,  le  Destin  toujours  tort.* 

La  FONTAINB. 

Upox  the  early  morning  of  the  day  commemorated  by 
the  historical  events  of  our  last  chapter,  two  men  were 
deposited  by  a  branch  coach  at  the  inn  of  a  hamlet  about 
ten  miles  distant  from  the  town  in  which  Mr.  Eoger 
Morton  resided.  Though  the  hamlet  was  small,  the  inn 
was  large,  for  it  was  placed  close  by  a  huge  finger-post  that 
pointed  to  three  great  roads:  one  led  to  the  town  before- 
mentioned  ;  another ,  to  the  heart  of  a  manufacturing  dis- 
trict; and  a  third  to  a  populous  seaport.  The  weather 
■was  fine,  and  the  two  travellers  ordered  breakfast  to  be 
taken  into  an  arbor  in  the  garden,  as  well  as  the  basins 
and  towels  necessary  for  ablution.  The  elder  of  the  trav- 
ellers appeared  to  be  imequivocally  foreign;  you  would 
have  guessed  him  at  once  for  a  German.  He  wore,  what 
was  then  very  uncommon  in  this  country,  a  loose,  brown 
linen  blouse,  buttoned  to  the  chin,  with  a  leathern  belt, 
into  Avhich  were  stuck  a  German  meerschaum  and  a 
tobacco-pouch.  He  had  very  long  flaxen  hair,  false  or 
real,  that  streamed  half-way  down  his  back,  large  light 
mustaches,  and  a  rough,  sunburnt  complexion  which 
made  the  fairness  of  the  hair  more  remarkable.  He  wore 
an  enormous   pair   of  green  spectacles,    and  complained 

^  The  good  we  effect  ourselves ;  the  evil  is  the  handiwork  of 
fortune.  Mortals  are  always  in  the  right,  destiny  always  in  the 
wrong. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  169 

much,  in  broken  English,  of  the  weakness  of  his  eyes. 
All  about  him,  even  to  the  smallest  minutiae,  indicated 
the  German:  not  only  the  large,  muscular  frame,  the 
broad  feet,  and  vast,  though  well-shaped  hands,  but  the 
brooch  —  evidently  purchased  of  a  Jew  in  some  great 
fair  —  stuck  ostentatiously  and  superfluously  into  his 
stock;  the  quaint,  droll-looking  carpet-bag,  which  he  re- 
fused to  trust  to  the  boots;  and  the  great,  massive,  dingy 
ring  which  he  wore  on  his  forefinger.  The  other  was  a 
slender,  remarkably  upright  and  sinewy  youth,  in  a  blue 
frock,  over  which  was  thrown  a  large  cloak,  a  travelling 
cap,  with  a  shade  that  concealed  all  of  the  upper  part  of 
liis  face,  except  a  dark,  quick  eye  of  uncommon  fire,  and 
a  shawl  handkerchief,  which  was  equally  useful  in  con- 
cealing the  lower  part  of  the  countenance.  On  descend- 
ing from  the  coach,  the  German,  with  some  difficulty, 
made  the  hostler  understand  that  he  wanted  a  post-chaise 
in  a  quarter  of  an  hour ;  and  then,  without  entering  the 
house,  he  and  his  friend  strolled  to  the  arbor.  While  the 
maid-servant  was  covering  the  table  with  bread,  butter, 
tea,  eggs,  and  a  huge  round  of  beef,  the  German  was 
busy  in  washing  his  hands,  and  talking  in  his  national 
tongue  to  the  young  man,  who  returned  no  answer. 
But  as  soon  as  the  servant  had  completed  her  operations, 
the  foreigner  turned  round,  and  observing  her  eyes  fixed 
on  his  brooch  with  much  female  admiration,  he  made  one 
stride  to  her. 

"  Der  Teufel,  my  goot  Madchen,  but  you  are  von  var 

—  pretty  —  vat  you  call  it  1  "  and  he  gave  her,  as  he 
spoke,  so  hearty  a  smack  that  the  girl  was  more  flustered 
than  flattered  by  the  courtesy. 

"  Keep  yourself  to  yourself,  sir !  "  said  she,  very  tartly, 

—  for  chambermaids  never  like  to  be  kissed  by  a  middle- 
aged  gentleman  when  a  yomiger  one  is  by;  whereupon 


170  NIGHT   AND    MOKNING. 

the  German  replied  by  a  pinch,  —  it  is  immaterial  to 
state  the  exact  spot  to  which  that  delicate  caress  was 
directed.  But  this  last  offence  was  so  inexpiable  that 
the  "  mtidchen  "  bounced  off  with  a  face  of  scarlet,  and  a 
"  Sir,  you  are  no  gentleman,  — that's  what  you  ar'n't!  " 
The  German  thrust  his  head  out  of  the  arbor,  and  fol- 
lowed her  with  a  loud  laugh ;  then,  drawing  himself  in 
again,  he  said,  in  quite  another  accent,  and  in  excellent 
English,  "  There,  Master  Philip,  we  have  got  rid  of  the 
girl  for  the  rest  of  the  morning,  and  that 's  exactly  Avhat 
I  wanted  to  do,  —  women's  wits  are  confoundedly  sharp. 
Well,  did  I  not  tell  you  right,  we  have  baffled  all  the 
bloodhounds  !  " 

"  And  here  then,  Gawtrey,  we  are  to  part, "  said  Philip, 
mournfully. 

"  I  wisli  you  would  think  better  of  it,  my  boy, "  re- 
turned ]VIr.  Gawtrey,  breaking  an  egg ;  "  how  can  you 
shift  for  yourself, —  no  kith  nor  kin,  not  even  that  im- 
portant machine  for  giving  advice  called  a  friend,  —  no, 
not  a  friend  when  I  am  gone  ?  I  foresee  how  it  must  end. 
(D—  it,  salt  butter,  by  Jove  !)  " 

"  If  I  were  alone  in  the  world,  as  I  have  told  you 
again  and  again,  perhaps  I  might  pin  my  fate  to  yours. 
But  my  brother !  " 

"  There  it  is,  always  wrong  when  we  act  from  our  feel- 
ings. My  whole  life,  which  some  day  or  other  I  will  tell 
you,  proves  that.  Your  brother,  —  bah!  is  he  not  very 
well  off  with  his  own  uncle  and  aunt  1  —  plenty  to  eat 
and  drink,  I  daresay.  Come,  man,  you  must  be  as  hun- 
gry as  a  hawk,  —  a  slice  of  the  beef  ?  Let  well  alone  and 
shift  for  yourself.  What  good  can  you  do  your 
brother  t  " 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I  must  see  him ;  I  have  sworn 
it." 


NIGHT  AND   xMORNING.  171 

"  Well,  go  and  see  him,  and  then  strike  across  the 
country  to  me.  I  will  wait  a  day  for  you, —  there 
now!  " 

"  But  tell  me,  first, "  said  Philip,  very  earnestly,  and 
fixing  his  dark  eyes  on  his  companion,  —  "  tell  me  —  yes, 
I  must  speak  frankly  —  tell  me,  you  who  would  link  my 
fortune  with  your  own,  tell  me  Avhat  and  who  are 
you  1  " 

Gawtrey  looked  up. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  ?  "  said  he,  dryly. 
"  I  fear  to  suppose  anything,   lest  I  wrong  you ;  but 
the   strange   place    to   which  you  took   me  the  evening 
on  which  you  saved  me  from  pursuit,  the  persons  I  met 
there  —  " 

"  Well-dressed,  and  very  civil  to  you  1  " 
"  True !    but   with  a  certain  wild   looseness   in   their 
talk  that  —    But  /  have  no  right  to  judge  others  by  mere 
appearance;  nor  is  it  this  that  has  made   me   anxious, 
and,  if  you  will,  suspicious." 
"  What,  then  1  " 
"  Your  dress,  —  your  disguise. " 

"  Disguised  yourself  !  —  ha !  —  ha  !  Behold  the  world's 
charity  !  You  fly  from  some  danger,  some  pursuit,  dis- 
guised, —  you,  who  hold  yourself  guiltless ;  I  do  the 
same,  and  you  hold  me  criminal,  —  a  robber,  perhaps, 
a  murderer  it  may  be  !  I  will  tell  you  what  I  am:  I  am 
a  son  of  fortune,  an  adventurer;  I  live  by  my  wits,  — 
so  do  poets  and  lawyers,  and  all  the  charlatans  of  the 
world;  I  am  a  charlatan, —  a  chameleon.  '  Each  man  in 
his  time  plays  many  parts ; '  I  play  any  part  in  which 
money,  the  arch-manager,  promises  me  a  livelihood.  Are 
you  satisfied  ?  " 

"  Perhaps, "  answered  the  boy,  sadly,  "  when  I  know 
more   of    the   world   I   shall    understand    you    better. 


172  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

Strange  —  strange,    tliat   you,    out   of   all   men,    should 
have  been  kind  to  me  in  distress  !  " 

"  Not  at  all  strange.  Ask  the  beggar  whom  he  gets 
the  most  pence  from,  —  the  fine  lady  in  her  carriage,  the 
beau  smelling  of  Eau  de  Cologne  ?  Pish !  the  people 
nearest  to  being  beggars  themselves  keep  the  beggar 
alive.  You  were  friendless,  and  the  man  who  has  all 
earth  for  a  foe  befriends  you.  It  is  the  Avay  of  the 
world,  sir,  —  the  way  of  the  world.  Come,  eat  while 
you  can.  This  time  next  year  you  may  have  no  beef  to 
your  bread." 

Thus  masticating  and  moralizing  at  the  same  time, 
]\Ir.  Gawtrey  at  last  finished  a  breakfast  that  would 
have  astonished  the  whole  Corporation  of  London ;  and 
then  taking  out  a  large  old  watch  with  an  enamelled 
back, —  doubtless  more  German  than  its  master, —  he 
said  as  he  lifted  up  his  carpet-bag,  "  I  must  be  off, — 
tempus  fugit,  and  I  must  arrive  just  in  time  to  nick  the 
vessels.  Shall  get  to  Ostend  or  Rotterdam  safe  and 
snug;  thence  to  Paris.  How  my  pretty  Fan  Avill  have 
grown !  Ah,  you  don't  know  Pan,  —  make  you  a  nice 
little  wife  one  of  those  days.  Cheer  up,  man,  we  shall 
meet  again.  Be  sure  of  it;  and  hark  ye,  that  strange 
place,  as  you  call  it,  where  I  took  you, — you  can  find 
it  again  ?  " 

"Not  I." 

"  Here,  then,  is  the  address.  Whenever  you  want 
me,  go  there,  ask  to  see  Mr.  Gregg:  old  fellow  with  one 
eye,  you  recollect;  shake  him  by  the  hand  just  so, — 
you  catch  the  trick:  practise  it  again.  No,  the  fore- 
finger thus;  that's  right.  Say  'blater,'  no  more, 
'blater;'  stay,  I  will  write  it  down  for  you;  and  then 
ask  for  William  Gawtrey's  direction.  He  will  give  it 
you  at  once,  without  questions,  —  these  signs  are  under- 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  173 

stood;  and  if  you  want  money  for  your  passage,  he  will 
give  you  that  also,  with  advice  into  the  bargain.  Al- 
ways a  warm  welcome  with  me.  And  so  take  care  of 
yourself,  and  good-by.  I  see  my  chaise  is  at  the  door. " 
As  he  spoke,  Gawtrey  shook  the  young  man's  hand 
with  cordial  vigor,  and  strode  off  to  his  chaise,  mutter- 
ing, "Money  Avell  laid  out, —  fee-money;  I  shall  have 
him,  and,  Gad,  I  like  him, —  poor  devil !  " 


17-4  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 


CHAPTER  V. 

^He  is  a  cunning  coachman  that  can  turn  well  in  a  narrow  room. 

Old  Pluji :  from  Lamb's  Specimens. 

Here  are  two  pilgrims, 

And  neither  kuows  one  footstep  of  the  way. 

IIevwood's  Duchess  of  Suffolk  ;  Ibid. 

The  chaise  had  scarce  driven  from  the  inn-door,  when  a 
coach  stopped  to  change  horses  on  its  last  stage  to  the 
town  to  wliicli  Philip  was  hound.  The  name  of  the  des- 
tination, in  gilt  letters  on  the  coach-door,  caught  his  eye 
as  he  walked  from  the  arbor  towards  the  road,  and  in  a 
few  moments  he  was  seated  as  the  fourth  passenger  in 
the  "  Xelson  Slow  and  Sure."  From  under  the  shade  of 
his  cap  he  darted  that  quick,  quiet  glance  which  a  man 
who  hunts,  or  is  hunted  —  in  otlier  words,  who  observes, 
or  .shuns  —  soon  acquires.  At  his  left  hand  sat  a  young 
woman  in  a  cloak  lined  with  yellow ;  she  had  taken  off 
her  bonnet  and  pinned  it  to  the  roof  of  the  coach,  and 
looked  fresh  and  pretty  in  a  silk  handkerchief,  which  she 
had  tied  round  her  liead,  probably  to  serve  as  a  nightcap 
during  the  drow.sy  length  of  the  journey.  Opposite  to 
her  was  a  middle-aged  man  of  pale  complexion,  and  a 
grave,  pensive,  studious  expression  of  face ;  and  vis-a-vis 
to  Philip  .sat  an  overdressed,  showy,  very  good-looking 
man  of  about  two  or  three  and  forty.  This  gentleman 
wore  auburn  whi.skers,  which  met  at  the  chin;  a  foraging 
3ap,  with  a  gold  tassel ;  a  velvet  waistcoat,  across  which, 
in   various   folds,    hung   a   golden  chain,   at  the  end  of 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  175 

which  dangled  an  eyeglass,  that  from  time  to  time  he 
screwed,  as  it  were,  into  liis  right  eye ;  he  wore  also  a 
blue  silk  stock,  with  a  frill  much  crumpled,  dirty  kid- 
gloves,  and  over  his  lap  lay  a  cloak  lined  with  red  silk. 
As  Philip  glanced  towards  this  personage,  the  latter  fixed 
his  glass  also  at  him,  with  a  scrutmizing  stare,  which 
drew  fire  from  Philip's  dark  eyes.  The  man  dropped  his 
glass,  and  said  in  a  half-provincial,  half  haw-haw  tone, 
like  the  stage-exquisite  of  a  minor  theatre,  "  Pawdon  me, 
and  split  legs!  "  therewith  stretching  himself  between 
Philip's  limbs  in  the  approved  fashion  of  inside  passen- 
gers. A  young  man  in  a  white  greatcoat  now  came  to 
the  door  with  a  glass  of  warm  sherry-and-Avater. 

"  You  must  take  this,  —  you  must,  now;  it  AviU  keep 
the  cold  out," — the  day  was  broiling, —  said  he  to  the 
young  woman. 

"  Gracious  me !  "  was  the  answer,  "  but  I  never  drink 
wine  of  a  morning,  James ;  it  will  get  into  my  head. " 

"  To  oblige  tne  I  "  said  the  young  man,  sentimentally ; 
whereupon  the  yoting  lady  took  the  glass,  and  looking 
very  kindly  at  her  Ganymede,  said,  "  Your  health !  "  and 
sipped,  and  made  a  wry  face;  then  she  looked  at  the 
passengers,  tittered,  and  said,  "  I  can't  bear  wine !  "  and 
so,  very  slowly  and  daintily,  sipped  up  the  rest.  A 
silent  and  expressive  squeeze  of  the  hand,  on  returning 
the  glass,  rewarded  the  young  man,  and  proved  the  salu- 
tary effect  of  his  prescription. 

"  All  right !  "  cried  the  coachman :  the  hostler  twitched 
the  cloths  from  the  leaders,  and  away  went  the  "Nelson 
Slow  and  Sure,"  with  as  much  pretension  as  if  it  had 
meant  to  do  the  ten  miles  in  an  hour.  The  pale  gentle- 
man took  from  his  waistcoat-pocket  a  little  box  contain- 
ing gum-arabic,  and  having  inserted  a  couple  of  morsels 
between  his  lips,  he  next  drew  forth  a  little  thin  vol- 


176  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

ume,  which,  from  the  manner  the  lines  were  printed, 
was  evidently  devoted  to  poetry. 

The  smart  gentleman,  who,  since  the  episode  of  the 
sherry -and-water,  had  kept  his  glass  fixed  upon  the 
young  lady,  now  said,  with  a  genteel  smirk,  "That 
young  gentleman  seems  very  auttentive,  miss!  " 

"  He  is  a  very  good  young  man,  sir,  and  takes  great 
care  of  me." 

"  Xot  your  brother,  miss,  — eh?  " 

"La,  sir!  — why  notC" 

"  Xo  faumily  likeness,  —  noice-looking  fellow  enough! 
But  your  oiyes  and  mouth,  —  ah,  miss!  " 

Miss  turned  away  her  head,  and  uttered  with  pert 
vivacity, — 

"I  never  likes  compliments,  sir!  But  the  young 
man  is  not  my  brother," 

"  A  sweetheart,  —  eh?  Oh,  fie,  miss!  Haw!  haw!" 
and  the  auburn-whiskered  Adonis  poked  Philip  in  the 
knee  with  one  hand,  and  the  pale  gentleman  in  the 
ribs  with  the  other.  The  latter  looked  up,  and  re- 
proaclifully ;  the  former  drew  in  his  legs,  and  uttered 
an  angry  ejaculation. 

**  Well,  sir,  there  is  no  harm  in  a  sweetheart,  is 
there  ? " 

"Kone  in  the  least,  ma'am;  I  advoise  you  to  double 
the  dose.  We  often  hear  of  two  strings  to  a  bow. 
Daun't  you  tliink  it  would  be  noicer  to  have  two  beaux 
to  your  string  ?  " 

As  he  thus  wittily  expressed  himself,  the  gentleman 
took  off  his  cap,  and  thrust  his  fingers  through  a  very 
curling  and  comely  head  of  hair;  the  young  lady  looked 
at  him  with  evident  coquetry,  and  said,  "  How  you  do 
run  on,  you  gentlemen!  " 

"I  may  well  run  on,  miss,  as  long  as  I  run  aufter 
you,"  was  the  gallant  reply. 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  177 

Here  the  pale  gentleman,  evidently  annoyed  by  being 
talked  across,  shut  his  book  up  and  looked  round.  His 
eye  rested  on  Philip,  who,  whether  from  the  heat  of 
the  day  or  from  tlie  forgetfulness  of  thought,  had  pushed 
his  cap  from  his  brows;  and  the  gentleman,  after  staring 
at  him  for  a  few  moments  with  great  earnestness,  sighed 
so  heavily  that  it  attracted  the  notice  of  all  the 
passengers. 

"Are  you  unwell,  sir?"  asked  the  young  lady,  com- 
passionately. 

•''  A  little  pain  in  my  side,  nothing  more!  " 

"  Chaunge  plauces  with  me,  sir,"  cried  the  Lothario, 
officiously.  "Now  do!"  The  pale  gentleman,  after 
a  short  hesitation  and  a  bashful  excuse,  accepted  the 
proposal.  In  a  few  moments  the  young  lady  and  the 
beau  were  in  deep  and  whispered  conversation,  their 
heads  turned  towards  the  window.  The  pale  gentleman 
continued  to  gaze  at  Philip,  till  the  latter,  perceiving 
the  notice  he  excited,  colored  and  replaced  his  cap  over 
his  face. 

"  Are  you  going  to  X 1  "  asked  the  gentleman,  in 

a  gentle,  timid  voice. 

"Yes!" 

"  Is  it  the  first  time  you  have  ever  been  there  ?  " 

"Sir!  "  returned  Philip,  in  a  voice  that  spoke  sur- 
prise and  distaste  at  his  neighbor's  curiosity. 

"Forgive  me,"  said  the  gentleman,  shrinking  back; 
"  but  you  remind  me  of  —  of  —  a  family  I  once  knew  in 
the  town.      Do  you  know  —  the  —  the  Morton's  ?  " 

One  in  Philip's  situation,  with,  as  he  supposed,  the 
oflticers  of  justice  in  his  track  (for  Gawtrey,  for  reasons 
of  his  own,  rather  encouraged  than  allayed  his  fears), 
might  well  be  suspicious.  He  replied,  therefore, 
shortly,  "  I   am   quite   a   stranger   to    the    town,"   and 

VOL.  I.  —  12 


178  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

ensconced  himself  in  the  corner,  as  if  to  take  a  nap. 
Alas!  that  answer  was  one  of  the  many  obstacles  he  was 
doomed  to  build  up  between  himself  and  a  fairer  fate. 

The  gentleman  sighed  again,  and  never  spoke  more  to 
the  end  of  tlie  journey.  When  the  coacli  halted  at  the 
inn,  —  the  same  inn  which  had  before  given  its  shelter 
to  poor  Catherine,  —  the  young  man  in  the  white  coat 
opened  the  door,  and  offered  his  arm  to  the  young  lady. 

"Do  3'ou  make  any  stay  here,  sir?  "  said  she  to  the 
beau,  as  she  unpinned  her  bonnet  from  the  roof. 

"Perhaps  so:  I  am  waiting  for  my  phe-c/ton,  which 
my  faellow  is  to  bring  down,  — tanking  a  little  tour." 

"We  shall  be  very  happy  to  see  you,  sir,"  said  the 
young  lady,  on  whom  the  phe-ffton  completed  the  effect 
produced  by  the  gentleman's  previous  gallantries;  and 
with  that  she  dropped  into  his  hand  a  very  neat  card,  on 
which  was  printed,  "  Wavers  and.  Snow,  Stay-makers, 
High  Street." 

The  beau  put  the  card  gracefully  into  his  pocket, 
leaped  from  the  coacli,  nudged  aside  his  rival  of  the 
Avhite  coat,  and  offered  his  arm  to  the  lady,  who  leaned 
on  it  affectionately  as  she  descended. 

"  This  gentleman  has  been  so  perlite  to  me,  James," 
said  she.  James  touched  his  hat;  the  beau  clapped 
him  on  the  shoulder:  "Ah!  you  are  not  a  hauppy 
man,  are  you?  Oh,  no,  not  at  all  a  hauppy  man! 
Good-day  to  you!     Guard,  that  hat-box  is  mine!  " 

While  ]-*]ii]ip  was  paying  the  coachman,  the  beavi 
passed,  and  whispered  him,  — 

"  Recollect  old  Gregg:  anything  on  the  lay  here,  — 
don't  spoil  my  sport  if  we  meet!  "  and  bustled  off  into 
the  inn,  wliistling  "  God  save  the  king!  " 

Philip  started,  then  tried  to  bring  to  mind  the  faces 
which  he  had  seen  at  the  "strange  place,"  and  thought 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  179 

lie  recalled  the  features  of  his  fellow-traveller.  How- 
ever, he  did  not  seek  to  renew  the  acquaintance,  but 
inquired  the  way  to  Mr.  Morton's  house,  and  thither  he 
now  proceeded. 

He  was  directed,  as  a  short  cut,  down  one  of  those 
narrow  passages,  at  the  entrance  of  which  posts  are 
placed,  as  an  indication  that  they  are  appropriated 
solely  to  foot-passengers.  A  dead  white  wall,  which 
screened  the  garden  of  the  physician  of  the  place  ran 
on  one  side;  a  high  fence  to  a  nursery -ground  was  on 
the  other;  the  passage  was  lonely,  for  it  was  now  the 
hour  when  few  persons  walk,  either  for  business  or 
pleasure,  in  a  provincial  town,  and  no  sound  was  heard 
save  the  fall  of  his  own  step  on  the  broad  flagstones. 
At  the  end  of  the  passage  in  the  main  street  to  which 
it  led,  he  saw  already  the  large,  smart,  showy  shop,  with 
the  hot  sun  shining  full  on  the  gilt  letters  that  con- 
veyed to  the  eyes  of  the  customer  the  respectable  name 
of  "Morton,"  —  when  suddenly  the  silence  was  broken 
by  choked  and  painful  sobs.  He  turned,  and  beneath  a 
compo  portico,  jutting  from  the  wall  which  adorned  the 
physician's  door,  he  saw  a  child  seated  on  the  stone 
steps  weeping  bitterly,  —  a  thrill  shot  through  Philip's 
heart!  Did  he  recognize,  disguised  as  it  was  by  pain 
and  sorrow,  that  voice?  He  paused,  and  laid  his  hand 
on  the  child's  shoulder:  "Oh,  don't,  don't:  pray 
don't,  —  I  am  going,  I  am  indeed!"  cried  the  child, 
quailing,  and  still  keeping  his  hands  clasped  before  his 
face. 

"  Sidney!  "  said  Philip.  The  boy  started  to  his  feet, 
uttered  a  cry  of  rapturous  joy,  and  fell  upon  his  brother's 
breast. 

"Oh,  Philip!  dear,  dear  Philip!  you  are  come  to 
take  me  away  back  to  my  own  —  own  mamma;  I  will  ba 


180  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

so  good;  I  will  never  tease  her  again, — never,  never? 
I  have  been  so  wretched!  " 

"  Sit  down,  and  tell  me  what  they  have  done  to  you," 
said  Philip,  checking  the  rising  heart  that  heaved  at  his 
mother's  name. 

So,  there  they  sat,  on  the  cold  stone  under  the  stran- 
ger's porch,  these  two  orphans:  Philip's  arm  round  his 
brother's  waist,  Sidney  leaning  on  his  shoulder,  and 
imparting  to  him  —  perhaps  with  pardonable  exaggera- 
tion —  all  the  sufferings  he  had  gone  through ;  and  when 
he  came  to  that  morning's  chastisement,  and  showed 
the  wale  across  the  little  hands  which  he  had  vainly 
held  up  in  supplication,  Philip's  passion  shook  him 
from  limb  to  limb.  His  impulse  was  to  march  straight 
into  Mr.  Morton's  shop  and  gripe  him  by  the  throat; 
and  the  indignation  he  betrayed  encouraged  Sidney  to 
color  yet  more  highly  the  tale  of  his  wrongs  and  pain. 

When  he  had  done,  and  clinging  tightly  to  his 
brother's  broad  chest,  said,  — 

"But  never  mind,  Philip;  now  we  will  go  home  to 
mamma. " 

Philip  replied,  — 

"  Listen  to  me ,  my  dear  brother.  We  cannot  go  back 
to  our  mother.  I  will  tell  you  why,  later.  We  are 
alone  in  the  world,  —  we  two!  If  you  will  come  with 
me,  God  help  you!  —  for  you  will  have  many  hardships: 
we  shall  have  to  work  and  drudge,  and  you  may  be  cold 
and  hungry,  and  tired,  very  often,  Sidney,  —  very,  very 
often!  But  you  know  that,  long  ago,  when  I  was  so 
passionate,  I  never  was  wilfully  unkind  to  you;  and  I 
declare  now,  that  I  would  bite  out  my  tongue  rather 
than  it  should  say  a  harsh  word  to  you.  That  is  all  I 
can  promise.  Think  well.  Will  you  never  miss  all 
the  comforts  you  have  now  ?  " 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  181 

"Comforts!"  repeated  Sidney,  ruefully,  and  looking 
at  the  wale  over  his  hands,  "Oh!  let  —  let  —  let  me 
go  with  you :  I  shall  die  if  I  stay  here.  I  shall ,  in- 
deed, —  indeed!  " 

"  Hush!  "  said  Philip;  for  at  that  moment  a  step  was 
heard,  and  the  pale  gentleman  walked  slowly  down  the 
passage,  and  started,  and  turned  his  head  wistfully  as  he 
looked  at  the  boys. 

When  he  was  gone,  Philip  rose. 

"It  is  settled,  then,"  said  he,  firmly.  "Come  with 
me  at  once.  You  shall  return  to  their  roof  no  more. 
Come,  quick:  we  shall  have  many  miles  to  go  to-night." 


182  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

He  comes  — 

Yet  careless  what  he  brings  ;  his  one  concern 

Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  destined  inn; 

And  having  dropped  the  expected  bag,  pass  on  — 

To  him  indifferent  whether  grief  or  joy. 

CowPER  :  Description  of  the  Postman. 

The  pale  gentleman  entered  Mr.  Morton's  shop,  and 
looking  round  him,  spied  the  Avorthy  trader  showing 
shawls  to  a  young  lady  just  married.  He  seated  him- 
self on  a  stool,  and  said  to  the  bowing  foreman,  — 

"  I  will  wait  till  Mr.  Morton  is  disengaged." 

The  young  lady  having  closely  examined  seven 
shawls,  and  declared  they  were  beautiful,  said,  "she 
•would  think  of  it,"  and  walked  away.  Mr.  Morton 
now  approached  the  stranger. 

"Mr.  Morton,"  said  the  pale  gentleman;  "you  are 
very  little  altered.     You  do  not  recollect  me  1 " 

"Bless  me,  Mr.  Spencer!  is  it  really  you?  Well, 
what  a  time  since  we  met!  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you. 
And  what  brings  you  to  N ?     Business?  " 

"  Yes,  business.     Let  us  go  within." 

Mr.  ]\rorton  led  the  way  to  the  parlor,  where  Master 
Tom,  re  perched  on  the  stool,  was  rapidly  digesting  the 
plundered  muffin.  Mr.  Morton  dismissed  him  to  play, 
ami  the  pale  gentleman  took  a  chair. 

"  ]\Ir.  Morton,"  said  he,  glancing  over  his  dress,  "you 
see  I  am  in  mourning.  Tt  is  for  your  sister.  I  never 
got  the  better  of  that  early  attachment,  —  never." 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  183 

"  My  sister !  Good  heavens !  "  said  Mr.  Morton , 
turning  very  pale;  "is  she  dead?  Poor  Catherine! 
—  and  I  not  know  of  it!     When  did  she  die  1  " 

"  Not  many  days  since ;  and  —  and  —  "  said  Mr.  Spen- 
cer, greatly  affected,  "I  fear  in  want.  I  had  been 
abroad  for  some  months;  on  my  return  last  week,  look- 
ing over  the  newspapers  (for  1  always  order  tliem  to  be 
filed),  I  read  the  short  account  of  her  lawsuit  against 
Mr.  Beaufort,  some  time  back.  I  resolved  to  find  her 
out.  I  did  so  through  the  solicitor  she  employed:  it 
was  too  late;  I  arrived  at  her  lodgings  two  days  after 
her  —  her  burial.  I  then  determined  to  visit  poor 
Catherine's  brother,  and  learn  if  anything  could  be  done 
foi'  the  children  she  had  left  behind." 

"  She  left  but  two.  Philip,  the  elder,  is  very  com- 
fortably   placed    at  R ;  the  younger   has   his  home 

with  me;  and  Mrs.  Morton  is  a  moth  —  that  is  to  say, 
she  takes  great  pains  with  him.  Ehem!  And  my 
poor,  poor  sister!  " 

"  Is  he  like  his  mother  ?  " 

"Very  much,  when  she  was  young, — poor,  dear 
Catherine !  " 

"  What  age  is  he  1  " 

"About  ten,  perhaps;  I  don't  know  exactly;  much 
younger  than  the  other.     And  so  she  's  dead!  " 

"  Mr.  Morton,  I  am  an  old  bachelor,"  —  here  a  sickly 
smile  crossed  Mr.  Spencer's  face;  "a  small  portion  of 
my  fortune  is  settled,  it  is  true,  on  ray  relations;  but 
tlie  rest  is  mine,  and  I  live  within  my  income.  The 
elder  of  these  boys  is  probably  old  enough  to  begin  to 
take  care  of  himself.  But  the  younger,  —  perhaps  you 
have  a  family  of  your  own,  and  can  spare  him  ?  " 

Mr.  Morton  hesitated,  and  twitched  up  his  trousers. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  "  this  is  very  kind  in  you.      I  don't 


184  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

know, — we'll  see.  The  boy  is  out,  now;  come  and 
dine  with  us  at  two,  —  pot-luck.  Well,  so  she  is  no 
more!  Heigho!  Meanwhile,  I  '11  talk  it  over  with 
Mrs.    M." 

"  I  will  be  with  you,"  said  Mr.  Spencer,  rising. 

"  Ah !  "  siglied  Mr.  Morton,  "  if  Catherine  had  but 
married  you,  she  would  have  been  a  happy  woman." 

"  I  would  have  tried  to  make  her  so,"  said  Mr.  Spen- 
cer, as  he  turned  away  his  face,  and  took  his  departure. 

Two  o'clock  came;  but  no  Sidney.  They  had  sent  to 
the  place  whither  he  had  been  despatched;  he  had  never 
arrived  there.  Mr.  Morton  grew  alarmed;  and,  when 
Mr.  Spencer  came  to  dinner,  his  host  was  gone  in  search 
of  the  truant.  He  did  not  return  till  three.  Doomed 
that  day  to  be  belated  both  at  breakfast  and  dinner, 
this  decided  him  to  part  with  Sidney  whenever  he 
should  be  found.  Mrs.  Morton  was  persuaded  that  the 
child  only  sulked,  and  would  come  back  fast  enough 
when  he  was  hungry.  Mr.  Spencer  tried  to  believe  her, 
and  ate  his  mutton,  which  was  burned  to  a  cinder;  but, 
Avhen  five,  six,  seven  o'clock  came,  and  the  boy  was 
still  missing,  even  Mrs.  Morton  agreed  that  it  was  high 
time  to  institute  a  regular  search.  The  whole  family 
set  off  different  ways.  It  was  ten  o'clock  before  they 
were  re-united;  and  then,  all  the  news  picked  up  was, 
that  a  boy,  answering  Sidney's  description,  had  been 
seen  with  a  young  man  in  three  several  parts  of  the 
town;  the  last  time  at  the  outskirts,  on  the  highroad 
towards  the  manufacturing  districts.  These  tidings  so 
far  relieved  Mr.  Morton's  mind  that  he  dismissed  the 
cliilliiig  fear  that  had  crept  there,  —  that  Sidney  might 
have  drowned  himself.  Boys  vjUL  drown  themselves 
sometimes!  The  description  of  the  young  man  coin- 
cided so  remarkably  with  the  fellow-passenger  of   Mr. 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  185 

Spencer,  that  he  did  not  doubt  it  was  the  same;  the 
more  so,  when  he  recollected  having  seen  him  with  a 
fair-haired  child  under  the  portico;  and,  yet  more,  when 
he  recalled  the  likeness  to  Catherine  that  had  struck 
him  in  the  coach,  and  caused  the  inquiry  that  had 
aroused  Philip's  suspicion.  The  mystery  was  thus  made 
clear,  —  Sidney  had  fled  with  his  brother.  Nothing 
more,  however,  could  be  done  that  night.  The  next 
morning,  active  measures  should  be  devised;  and  when 
the  morning  came,  the  mail  brought  to  Mr.  Morton  the 
two  following  letters.  The  first  was  from  Arthur 
Beaufort. 

Sir,  —  I  have  been  prevented  by  severe  illness  from  writing 
to  you  before.  I  can  now  scarcely  hold  a  pen  ;  but  the  instant 
my  health  is  recovered  I  shall  be  with  you  at  N • 

On  her  deathbed,  the  mother  of  the  boy  under  your  charge, 
Sidney  Morton,  committed  him  solemnly  to  me.  T  make  his 
fortunes  ray  care,  and  shall  hasten  to  claim  him  at  your  kindly 
hands.  But  the  elder  son,  —  this  poor  Philip,  who  has  suf- 
fered so  unjustly,  for  our  lawyer  has  seen  Mr.  Plaskwith  and 
heard  the  whole  story,  —  what  has  become  of  him  ?  All  our 
inquiries  have  failed  to  track  him.  Alas  !  1  was  too  ill  to 
institute  them  myself  while  it  was  yet  time.  Perhaps  he  may 
have  sought  shelter  with  you,  his  uncle  :  if  so,  assure  him  that 
he  is  in  no  danger  from  the  pursuit  of  the  law,  —  that  his 
innocence  is  fully  recognized  ;  and  that  my  father  and  myself 
implore  him  to  accept  our  affection.  I  can  write  no  more 
now  ;  but  in  a  few  days  I  shall  hope  to  see  you. 

I  am,  sir,  etc. 

Arthur  Beaufort. 

Berkeley  Square. 

The  second  letter  was  from  Mr.  Plaskwith,  and  ran 
thus :  — 

Dear  Morton,  —  Something  very  awkward  has  happened, 
—  not  my  fault,  and  very  unpleasant  for  me.     Your  relation. 


1S6  KIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

Philip,  as  I  wrote  you  word,  was  a  painstaking  lad,  though 
odd  and  bad  mannered,  —  for  want,  perhaps,  poor  boy  I  of 
being  taught  better ;  and  Mrs.  P.  is,  you  know,  a  very  genteel 
woman,  —  women  go  too  much  by  manners,  —  so  she  never 
took  much  to  him.  However,  to  the  point,  as  the  French 
emperor  used  to  say  :  one  evening  he  asked  me  for  money  for 
his  mother,  who,  he  said,  was  ill,  in  a  very  insolent  way,  — 
I  ma}'  say  threatening.  It  was  in  my  own  shop,  and  bei'ore 
Plimmins  and  Mrs.  P.  ;  I  was  forced  to  answer  with  dignified 
rebuke,  and  left  the  shop.  When  I  returned  he  was  gone,  and 
some  shillings,  —  fourteen,  I  think,  and  three  sovereigns, — • 
evidently  from  the  till,  scattered  on  the  floor.  Mrs.  P.  and 
Mr.  Plimmins  were  very  much  frightened  ;  thought  it  was 
clear  I  was  robbed,  and  that  we  were  to  be  murdered.  Plim- 
mins slept  below  that  night,  and  we  borrowed  butcher  John- 
son's dog.  Nothing  happened.  I  did  not  tliink  I  was  robbed; 
because  the  money,  when  we  came  to  calculate,  was  all  right. 
I  know  human  nature  ;  he  had  thought  to  take  it,  but  repented, 
—  quite  clear.  However,  I  was  naturally  very  angry,  tliought 
he  'd  come  back  again,  meant  to  reprove  him  properly, 
waited  several  days,  heard  nothing  of  him,  grew  uneasy, 
would  not  attend  longer  to  Mrs.  P.  ;  for,  as  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte observed,  "  women  are  well  in  their  way,  not  in  ours." 
Made  Plimmins  go  with  me  to  town,  hired  a  Bow  Sti-eet 
runner  to  track  him  out,  cost  me  £l,  Is.  and  two  glasses  of 
brandy-and- water.  Poor  Mrs.  Morton  was  just  buried,  — 
quite  shocked  !  Suddenly  saw  the  boy  in  the  streets.  Plim- 
mins rushed  forward  in  the  kindest  way,  was  knocked  down, 
hurt  his  arm,  paid  2«.  6d.  for  lotion.  Philip  ran  off,  we  ran 
after  him, — could  not  find  him.  Forced  to  return  home. 
Next  day,  a  lawyer  from  a  Mr.  Beaufort  —  Mr.  George  Black- 
well,  a  gentleman-like  man — called.  Mr.  Beaufort  will  do 
anytliing  for  him  in  reason.  Is  there  anything  more  /can  do  ] 
I  really  am  very  uneasy  about  the  lad,  and  Mrs.  P.  and  I  have 
a  tiff  about  it  :  but  that's  nothing  ;  thought  I  had  best  write 
to  you  for  instructions. 

Yours  truly, 

C.  Plaskwith. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  187 

P.  S.  Just  open  my  letter  to  say,  Bow  Street  officer  just 
been  here,  has  found  out  that  the  l)oy  has  been  seen  with  a 
very  suspicious  character.  They  think  he  has  left  London. 
Bow  Street  officer  wants  to  go  after  him,  very  expensive  ; 
so  now  you  can  decide. 

Mr.  Spencer  scarcely  listened  to  Mr.  Plaskwith's 
letter,  but  of  Arthur's  he  felt  jealous.  He  would  fain 
have  been  the  only  protector  to  Catherine's  children; 
but  he  was  the  last  man  titted  to  head  the  search  now 
so  necessary  to  prosecute  with  equal  tact  and  energy. 

A  soft-hearted,  soft-heailed  man,  a  confirmed  valetu- 
dinarian, a  day-dreamer,  who  had  wasted  away  his  life 
in  dawdling  and  maundering  over  simple  poetry,  and 
sighing  over  his  unhappy  attachment;  no  child,  no 
babe,  was  more  thoroughly  helpless  than  Mr.  Spencer. 

The  task  of  investigation  devolved,  therefore,  on  Mr. 
Morton,  and  he  went  about  it  in  a  regular,  plain, 
straightforward  way.  Handbills  were  circulated,  con- 
stables employed,  and  a  lawyer,  accompanied  by  Mr. 
Spencer,  despatched  to  the  manufacturing  districts 
towards  which  the  orphans  had  been  seen  to  direct  their 
path. 


1S8  NIGHT  AND   MOiiNING. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Give  the  gentle  Sout'i 
Yet  leave  to  court  those  sails. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  :  Beggar's  Bush. 

Cut  your  cloth,  sir, 
According  to  your  calling. 

Ibid. 

Meanwhile  the  brothers  were  far  away,  and  He  who 
feeds  the  young  ravens  made  their  paths  pleasant  to 
their  feet.  Philip  had  broken  to  Sidney  the  sad  news 
of  their  mother's  death,  and  Sidney  had  wej)t  with 
bitter  passion.  But  children,  —  what  can  they  know 
of  death  ?  Their  tears  over  graves  dry  sooner  than  the 
dews.  It  is  melancholy  to  compare  the  depth,  the  en- 
durance, the  far-sighted,  anxious,  prayerful  love  of  a 
parent,  with  the  inconsiderate,  frail,  and  evanescent 
affection  of  the  infant,  whose  eyes  the  hues  of  the  but- 
terfly yet  dazzle  with  delight.  It  was  the  night  of 
their  flight,  and  in  the  open  air,  when  Philip  (his  arms 
round  Sidney's  waist)  told  his  brother  orphan  that  they 
were  motherless.  And  the  air  was  balmy,  the  skies 
filled  Avith  the  effulgent  presence  of  the  August  moon ; 
the  corn-fields  stretched  round  them  wide  and  far,  and 
not  a  leaf  trembled  on  the  beech-tree  beneath  which 
they  had  sought  shelter.  It  seemed  as  if  nature  herself 
smiled  pityingly  on  their  young  sorrow,  and  said  to 
tliem,  "  Grieve  not  for  the  dead:  I,  who  live  forever,  I 
will  be  your  mother!  " 

They  crept,  as  the  night  deepened,  into  the  warmer 
sleeping-place   afforded   by   stacks   of   hay,  mown  that 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  189 

summer  and  still  fragrant.  And  the  next  morning  the 
hirds  woke  them  betimes,  to  feel  that  liberty,  at  least, 
was  with  them,  and  to  wander  with  her  at  will. 

Who  in  his  boyhood  has  not  felt  the  delight  of  free- 
dom and  adventure  ?  —  to  have  the  world  of  woods  and 
sward  before  him;  to  escape  restriction;  to  lean,  for  the 
first  time,  on  his  own  resources;  to  rejoice  in  the  wild 
but  manly  luxury  of  independence ;  to  act  the  Crusoe ; 
and  to  fancy  a  Friday  in  every  footprint,  —  an  island 
of  his  own  in  every  field?  Yes,  in  spite  of  their  deso- 
lation, their  loss,  of  the  melancholy  past,  of  the  friend- 
less future,  the  orphans  were  happy,  —  happy  in  their 
youth,  their  freedom,  their  love,  their  wanderings  in 
the  delicious  air  of  the  glorious  August.  Sometimes 
they  came  upon  knots  of  reapers  lingering  in  the  shade 
of  the  hedgerows  over  their  noon-day  meal ;  and,  grown 
sociable  by  travel,  and  bold  by  safety,  they  joined  and 
partook  of  the  rude  fare  with  the  zest  and  fatigue  of 
youth.  Sometimes,  too,  at  night,  they  saw  gleam  afar, 
and  red  by  the  wood-side,  the  fires  of  gypsy  tents. 
But  these,  with  the  superstition  derived  from  old  nur- 
sery tales,  they  scrupulously  shunned,  eying  them 
with  a  mysterious  awe.  What  heavenly  twilights  be- 
long to  that  golden  month!  —  the  air  so  lucidly  serene, 
as  the  purple  of  the  clouds  fades  gradually  away,  and 
up  soars,  broad,  round,  intense,  and  luminous,  the 
full  moon  which  belongs  to  the  joyous  season!  The 
fields  then  are  greener  than  in  the  heats  of  July  and 
June,  —  they  have  got  back  the  luxury  of  a  second 
spring.  And  still,  beside  the  paths  of  the  travellers, 
lingered  on  the  hedges  the  clustering  honeysuckle,  the 
convolvulus  glittered  in  the  tangles  of  the  brake,  the 
hardy  heath-flower  smiled  on  the  green  waste. 

And   ever,  at  evening,  they  came,  field    after   field, 


190  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

upon  those  circles  which  recall  to  children  so  many 
charmed  legends,  and  are  fresh  and  frequent  in  that 
month, — the  fairy  rings!  They  thought,  poor  boys! 
that  it  was  a  good  omen,  and  half  fancied  that  the 
fairies  protected  them,  as  in  the  old  time  they  had 
often  protected  the  desolate  and  outcast. 

They  avoided  the  main  roads,  and  all  towns,  with 
suspicious  care.  But  sometimes  they  paused  for  food 
and  rest  at  the  obscure  hostels  of  some  scattered  hamlet ; 
though,  more  often,  they  loved  to  spread  the  simple 
food  they  purchased  by  the  way  under  some  thick  tree, 
or  beside  a  stream  through  whose  limpid  waters  they 
could  watch  the  trout  glide  and  play.  And  they  often 
preferred  the  chance  shelter  of  a  haystack  or  a  shed  to 
the  less  romantic  repose  offered  by  the  small  inns  they 
alone  dared  to  enter.  They  went  in  this  much  by  the 
face  and  voice  of  the  host  or  hostess.  Once  only  Philip 
had  entered  a  town,  on  the  second  day  of  their  flight, 
and  that  solely  for  the  purchase  of  ruder  clothes,  and  a 
change  of  linen  for  Sidney,  with  some  articles  and  im- 
plements of  use  necessary  in  their  present  course  of 
shift  and  welcome  hardship.  A  wise  precaution;  for, 
thus  clad,  they  escaped  suspicion. 

So  journeying,  they  consumed  several  days;  and, 
having  taken  a  direction  quite  opposite  to  that  which 
led  to  the  manufacturing  districts,  whither  pursuit  had 
been  directed,  they  were  now  in  the  centre  of  another 
county,  —  in  the  neighborhood  of  one  of  the  most  con- 
ftiderable  towns  of  England;  and  here  Pliilip  began  to 
think  tlieir  wanderings  ought  to  cease,  and  it  was  time 
tf)  settle  on  some  definite  course  of  life.  He  had  care- 
fully hoarded  about  his  person,  and  most  thriftily  man- 
aged, the  little  fortune  bequeathed  by  liis  mother. 
But  Philip  looked  on  this  capital  as  a  deposit  sacred  to 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  191 

Sidney;  it  was  not  to  be  spent,  but  kept  and  augmented, 

—  the  nucleus  for  future  wealth.  Within  the  last  few 
weeks  his  character  was  greatly  ripened,  and  his  powers 
of  thought  enlarged.  He  was  no  more  a  boy,  —  he  was 
a  man;  he  had  another  life  to  take  care  of.  He  re- 
solved, then,  to  enter  the  town  they  were  approaching, 
and  to  seek  for  some  situation  by  which  he  might 
maintain  both.  Sidney  was  very  loth  to  abandon  their 
present  roving  life;  but  he  allowed  that  the  Avarm 
weather  could  not  always  last,  and  that  in  winter  the 
fields  would  be  less  pleasant.  He,  therefore,  with  a 
sigh,  yielded  to  his  brother's  reasonings. 

They  entered  the  fair  and  busy  town  of  one  day 

at  noon ;  and,  after  finding  a  small  lodging,  at  which  he 
deposited  Sidney,  who  was  fatigued  with  their  day's 
walk,  Philip  sallied  forth  alone. 

After  his  long  rambling,  Philip  was  pleased  and 
struck  with  tlie  broad  bustling  streets,  the  gay  shops, 

—  the  evidences  of  opulence  and  trade.  He  thought  it 
hard  if  he  could  not  find  there  a  market  for  the  health 
and  heart  of  sixteen.  He  strolled  slowly  and  alone 
along  the  streets,  till  his  attention  was  caught  by  a 
small  corner-shop,  in  the  window  of  which  was  placed 
a  board,  bearing  this  inscription :  — 

OFFICE    FOR    EMPLOYMENT.  —  RECIPROCAL    ADVANTAGE. 

Mr.  John  Clump's  bureau  open  every  day  from  ten  till  four. 
Clerks,  servants,  laborers,  etc.,  provided  with  suitable  situa- 
tions. Terms  moderate.  N.  B.  —  The  oldest  established 
olliee  in  the  town. 

Wanted,  a  good  cook.     An  under-gardener. 

What  he  sought  was  here!  Philip  entered,  and  saw  a 
short,  fat  man  with  spectacles,  seated  before  a  desk, 
poring  upon  the  well-filled  leaves  of  a  long  register. 


192  NIGHT   AND   MORNING, 

"Sir,"  said  Philip,  "  I  wish  for  a  situation;  I  don't 
care  what." 

"  Half-a-crown  for  entry,  if  you  please.  That 's  right. 
Now  for  particulars.  Hum! — you  don't  look  like  a 
servant!  " 

"  No ;  I  wish  for  any  place  where  my  education  can 
be  of  use.  I  can  read  and  write ;  I  know  Latin  and 
Frencli ;  I  can  draw ;  I  know  arithmetic  and  summing. " 

"  Very  well ;  very  genteel  young  man ,  —  prepossessing 
appearance  (that's  a  fudge!) — highly  educated;  usher 
in  a  school,  eh?  " 

"What  you  like." 

"  References. " 

"  I  have  none. " 

"Eh!  —  none!  "  and  Mr.  Clump  fixed  his  spectacles 
full  upon  Philip. 

Philip  was  prepared  for  the  question,  and  had  the 
sense  to  perceive  that  a  frank  reply  was  his  best  policy. 
"  The  fact  is,"  said  he,  boldly,  "  I  was  well  brought  up; 
my  father  died;  I  was  to  be  bound  apprentice  to  a  trade 
I  disliked:  I  left  it,  and  have  now  no  friends." 

"  If  I  can  help  you,  I  will,"  said  Mr.  Clump,  coldly. 
"  Can't  promise  much.  If  you  were  a  laborer,  char- 
acter might  not  matter;  but  educated  young  men  must 
have  a  character.  Hands  always  more  useful  tlian 
head.  Education  no  avail  nowadays;  common,  quite 
common.     Call  again  on  Monday." 

Somewhat  disappointed  and  chilled,  Philip  turned 
from  the  bureau;  but  he  had  a  strong  confidence  in  liis 
own  resources,  and  recovered  his  spirits  as  he  mingled 
with  the  throng.  He  passed,  at  length,  by  a  livery- 
stable,  and  paused,  from  old  associations,  as  he  saw  a 
groom  in  the  mews  attempting  to  manage  a  young,  hot 
horse,  evidently  unbroken.     The  master  of  the  stables, 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  193 

in  a  green  short  jacket  and  top-boots,  with  a  long  whip 
in  his  hand,  was  standing  by,  with  one  or  two  men  who 
looked  like  horse-dealers. 

"  Come  off ,  Clumsy !  yon  can't  manage  that  'ere  fine 
hanimal,"  cried  the  livery-man.  "  Ah!  he  's  a  lamb, 
sir,  if  he  were  backed  properly.  But  I  has  not  a  man 
in  the  yard  as  can  ride,  since  Will  died.  Come  off,  I 
say,  lubber!  " 

But  to  come  off,  without  being  thrown  off,  was  more 
easily  said  than  done.  The  horse  was  now  plunging  as 
if  Juno  had  sent  her  gad-fly  to  him;  and  Philip,  in- 
terested and  excited,  came  near  and  nearer,  till  he  stood 
by  the  side  of  the  horse-dealers.  The  other  hostlers  ran 
to  the  help  of  their  comrade,  who,  at  last,  with  white 
lips  and  shaking  knees,  found  himself  on  terra  firma  ; 
while  the  horse,  snorting  hard,  and  rubbing  his  head 
against  the  breast  and  arms  of  the  hostler  who  held  him 
tightly  by  the  rein,  seemed  to  ask,  in  his  own  way, 
"  Are  there  any  more  of  you  ?  " 

A  suspicion  that  the  horse  was  an  old  acquaintance 
crossed  Philip's  mind;  he  went  up  to  him,  and  a  white 
spot  over  the  left  eye  confirmed  his  doubts.  It  had  been 
a  foal  reserved  and  reared  for  his  own  riding;  one  that, 
in  his  prosperous  days,  had  ate  bread  from  his  hand, 
and  followed  him  round  the  paddock  like  a  dog;  one 
that  he  had  mounted  in  sport,  without  saddle,  when  his 
father's  back  was  turned;  a  friend,  in  short,  of  the 
happy  lang  syne, — nay,  the  very  friend  to  whom  he 
had  boasted  his  affection,  when,  standing  with  Arthur 
Beaufort  under  the  summer  sky,  the  whole  world  seemed 
to  him  full  of  friends.  He  put  his  hand  on  the  horse's 
neck,  and  whispered,  "  Soho!  So,  Billy!  "  and  the  horse 
turned  sharp  round  with  a  quick,  joyous  neigh. 

"If   you   please,  sir,"  said   Philip,  appealing  to  the 

VOL.  I. —  13 


194  NIGHT   AND   MOltNING. 

livery-man,  "  I  will  undertake  to  ride  this  horse,  and 
take  liim  over  yon  leaping-bar.     Just  let  me  try  him. " 

"  There  's  a  fine  spirited  lad  for  you!  "  said  the  livery- 
man, much  pleased  at  the  offer.  "  Xow,  gentlemen, 
did  I  not  tell  you  that  'ere  hanimal  had  no  vice  if  he 
was  properly  managed  ?  " 

The  horse-dealers  shook  their  heads. 

"  May  I  give  him  some  bread  first?  "  asked  Philip; 
and  the  hostler  was  despatched  to  the  house.  Meanwhile 
the  animal  evinced  various  signs  of  pleasure  and  recog- 
nition, as  Philip  stroked  and  talked  to  him;  and, 
finally,  when  he  ate  the  bread  from  the  young  man's 
hand,  the  whole  yard  seemed  in  as  much  delight  and 
surprise  as  if  they  had  witnessed  one  of  Monsieur  Van 
Amburgh's  exploits. 

And  now,  Philip,  still  caressing  the  horse,  slowly 
and  cautiously  mounted;  the  animal  made  one  bound 
half  across  the  yard,  —  a  bound  which  sent  all  the  horse- 
dealers  into  a  corner,  —  and  then  went  tlirough  liis  paces, 
one  after  the  other,  with  as  much  ease  and  calm  as  if  he 
had  been  broken  in  at  Mr.  Fozard's  to  carry  a  young 
lady.  And  when  he  crowned  all  by  going  thrice  over 
the  leaping-bar,  and  Philip,  dismounting,  threw  the 
reins  to  the  hostler,  and  turned  triumphantly  to  the  horse- 
dealer,  that  gentleman  slapped  him  on  the  back,  and 
said,  emphatically,  "Sir,  you  are  a  man!  and  I  am 
proud  to  see  you  here. " 

^Meanwhile  the  horse-dealers  gathered  round  the 
animal,  looked  at  his  hoofs,  felt  his  legs,  examined  his 
windpipe,  and  concluded  the  bargain,  which,  but  for 
Philip,  would  have  been  very  abruptly  broken  off. 
When  the  horse  was  led  out  of  the  yard,  the  livery-man, 
Mr.  Stubmore,  turned  to  Philip,  who,  leaning  against 
the  wall,  followed  the  poor  animal  with  mournful  eyes. 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  195 

"  My  good  sir,  you  have  sold  that  horse  for  me,  —  that 
you  have !  Anything  as  I  can  do  for  you  ?  One  good 
turn  deserves  another.     Here  's  a  brace  of  shiners." 

"  Thank  you,  sir!  I  want  no  money,  but  I  do  want 
some  employment.  I  can  be  of  use  to  you,  perhaps,  in 
your  establisliment.  I  have  been  brought  up  among 
horses  all  my  life." 

"  Saw  it,  sir!  that 's  very  clear.  I  say,  that  'ere  horse 
knows  you!  "  and  the  dealer  put  his  finger  to  his  nose. 
"  Quite  right  to  be  mum!  He  was  bred  by  an  old  cus- 
tomer of  mine  —  famous  rider!  —  Mr.  Beaufort.  Aha! 
that  's  where  you  knew  him,  I  'spose.  Were  you  in 
his  stables  ?  " 

"  Hem,  —  I  knew  Mr.  Beaufort  well." 

"  Did  you  1  You  could  not  know  a  better  man.  Well, 
I  shall  be  very  glad  to  engage  you,  though  you  seem  by 
your  hands  to  be  a  bit  of  a  gentleman,  — ehl  Never 
mind;  don't  want  you  to  groom!  —  but  superintend 
things.     D'  ye  know  accounts,  eh?  " 

"Yes." 

"Character?" 

Philip  repeated  to  Mr.  Stubmore  the  story  he  had 
imparted  to  Mr.  Clump.  Somehow  or  other  men  who 
live  much  with  horses  are  always  more  lax  in  their 
notions  than  the  rest  of  mankind.  Mr.  Stubmore  did 
not  seem  to  grow  more  distant  at  Philip's  narration. 

"  Understand  you  perfectly,  my  man.  Brought  up 
with  them  'ere  fine  creturs,  how  could  you  nail  your 
nose  to  a  desk?  I  '11  take  you  without  more  palaver. 
Wliat  's  your  name  ?  " 

"Philips." 

"  Come  to-morrow,  and  we  '11  settle  about  wages. 
Sleep  here  ?  " 

"  No.     I  have  a  brother  whom  I  must  lodge  with,  and 


196  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

for  whose  sake  I  wish  to  work.  I  should  not  like 
him  to  be  at  the  stables,  —  he  is  too  young.  But  I  can 
come  early  every  day,  and  go  home  late." 
"  Well,  just  as  you  like,  man.  Good-day." 
And  thus,  not  from  any  mental  accomplishment, — 
not  from  the  result  of  his  intellectual  education,  but  from 
the  mere  pliysical  capacity  and  brute  habit  of  sticking 
fast  on  his  saddle,  did  Philip  Morton,  in  this  great  in- 
telligent, gifted,  civilized,  enlightened  community  of 
Great  Britain,  find  the  means  of  earning  his  bread  with- 
out stealing  it. 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  197 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Don  Salluste  (sonriant). — Je  parie 
Que  vous  ne  peusiez  pas  a  moi  ? 

Ruif  Bias. 
Don  Salluste.  Cousin ! 

Don  Cesar.  —  De  vos  bienfaits  je  n'aurai  nulle  envie 
Tant  que  je  trouverai  vivant  ma  libre  vie.^ 

Ibid. 

Philip's  situation  was  agreeable  to  his  habits.  His 
great  courage  and  skill  in  horsemanship  were  not  the 
only  qualifications  useful  to  Mr.  Stubmore:  his  educa- 
tion answered  a  useful  purpose  in  accounts,  and  his 
manners  and  appearance  were  liighly  to  the  credit  of  the 
yard.  The  customers  and  loungers  soon  grew  to  like 
Gentleman  Philips,  as  he  was  styled  in  the  establishment. 
Mr.  Stubmore  conceived  a  real  affection  for  him.  So 
passed  several  weeks;  and  Philip,  in  this  humble  ca- 
pacity, might  have  worked  out  his  destinies  in  peace  and 
comfort,  but  for  a  new  cause  of  vexation  that  arose  in 
Sidney.  This  boy  was  all  in  all  to  his  brother.  For 
him  he  had  resisted  the  hearty  and  joyous  invitations  of 
Gawtrey  (whose  gay  manner  and  high  spirits  had,  it 
must  be  owned,  captivated  his  fancy,  despite  the  equivo- 
cal mystery  of  the  man's  avocations  and  condition) ;  for 
him  he  now  worked  and  toiled,  cheerful  and  contented,  — 
and  him  he  sought  to  save  from  all  to  which  he  subjected 

1  Don  Sallust  (smiling). —  I'lllay  a  wager  you  won't  think  of  me  ? 
Don  Sallust.  —  Cousin  ! 

Don  Cfvsar.  —  I  covet  not  your  favors  so,  but  I  lead  an  inde« 
pendent  life. 


108  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

himself.  Ho  could  not  bear  that  that  soft  and  delicate 
child  should  ever  he  exposed  to  the  low  and  menial  asso- 
ciations tliat  now  made  up  his  own  life;  to  the  obscene 
slang  of  grooms  and  hostlers ;  to  their  coarse  manners  and 
rough  contact.  He  kept  him,  therefore,  apart  and  aloof 
ill  their  little  lodging,  and  hoped  in  time  to  lay  by,  so 
that  Sidney  might  ultimately  be  restored,  if  not  to  his 
bright  original  sphere,  at  least  to  a  higher  grade  than 
that  to  which  Philip  was  himself  condemned.  But  poor 
Sidnej'  could  not  bear  to  be  thus  left  alone ;  to  lose  sight 
of  his  brother  from  daybreak  till  bedtime ;  to  have  no  one 
to  amuse  him.  He  fretted  and  pined  away,  —  all  the 
little  inconsiderate  selfishness,  uneradicated  from  his 
breast  by  his  sufferings,  broke  out  tlie  more,  the  more  he 
felt  that  he  was  the  first  object  on  earth  to  Philip. 
Philip,  thinking  he  might  be  more  cheerful  at  a  day- 
school,  tried  the  experiment  of  placing  him  at  one  where 
the  boys  were  much  of  his  own  age.  But  Sidney,  on 
the  third  day,  came  back  with  a  black  eye,  and  he  would 
return  no  more.  Philip  several  times  thought  of  chang- 
ing their  lodging  for  one  where  there  were  young  people. 
But  Sidney  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  kind  old  widow  who 
was  their  landlady,  and  cried  at  the  thought  of  removal. 
Unfortunately,  the  old  woman  was  deaf  and  rheumatic ; 
and  though  she  bore  teasing  od  libitum,  she  could  not 
entertain  the  child  long  on  a  stretch.  Too  young  to  be 
reasonable,  Sidney  could  not  or  would  not  comprehend 
why  his  brother  was  so  long  away  from  liim;  and  once 
he  .said,  peevi.shly,  — 

"  If  I  had  thought  I  was  to  be  moped  up  so,  I  would 
not  have  left  Mrs.  Morton.  Tom  was  a  bad  boy,  but 
still  it  was  somebody  to  play  with.  I  wish  I  had  not 
gone  away  with  you !  " 

Tliis  speech  cut  Philip  to  the  heart.     What,  then,  he 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  199 

had  taken  from  the  child  a  respectable  and  safe  shelter, 
—  the  sure  provision  of  a  life,  —  and  the  cliild  now  re- 
proached him!  When  this  was  said  to  him,  the  tears 
gushed  from  his  eyes. 

"  God  forgive  me,  Sidney, "  said  he,  and  turned  away. 

But  then,  Sidney,  who  had  the  most  endearing  ways 
with  him,  seeing  his  brother  so  vexed,  ran  up  and 
kissed  him,  and  scolded  himself  for  being  naughty. 
StiU  the  words  were  spoken,  and  tlieir  meaning  rankled 
deep.  Philip  himself,  too,  was  morbid  in  his  excessive 
tenderness  for  this  boy.  There  is  a  certain  age,  before 
the  love  for  the  sex  commences,  when  the  feeling  of 
friendship  is  almost  a  passion.  You  see  it  constantly  in 
girls  and  boys  at  school.  It  is  the  first  vague  craving  of 
the  heart  after  the  master  food  of  human  life,  —  love. 
It  has  its  jealousies  and  humors  and  caprices,  like  love 
itself.  Philip  was  painfully  acute  to  Sidney's  afi'ection, 
was  jealous  of  every  particle  of  it.  He  dreaded  lest  his 
brother  should  ever  be  torn  from  him. 

He  would  start  from  his  sleep  at  night,  and  go  to 
Sidney's  bed  to  see  that  he  was  there.  He  left  him  in 
the  morning  with  forebodings,  —  he  returned  in  the  dark 
with  fear.  Meanwhile  the  character  of  this  young  man, 
so  sweet  and  tender  to  Sidney,  was  gradually  becoming 
more  hard  and  stern  to  others.  He  had  now  climbed  to 
the  post  of  command  in  that  rude  establishment;  and 
premature  command  in  any  sphere  tends  to  make  men 
unsocial  and  imperious. 

One  day  Mr.  Stubmore  called  him  into  his  own  count- 
ing-house, where  stood  a  gentleman,  with  one  hand  in  his 
coat-pocket,  the  other  tapping  his  whip  against  his  boot. 

"  Philips,  show  this  gentleman  the  brown  mare.  Slie 
is  a  beauty  in  harness,  is  not  she  ?  This  gentleman 
wants  a  match  for  his  phe-aton." 


200  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

"  She  must  step  very  hoigh, "  said  the  gentleman, 
turning  round;  and  Philip  recognized  the  beau  in  the 
stage-coach. 

The  recognition  was  simultaneous.  The  beau  nodded, 
then  whistled,  and  winked. 

"  Come,  my  man,  I  am  at  your  service, "  said  he. 

Philip,  with  many  misgivings,  followed  him  across  the 
yard.      The  gentleman  then  beckoned  him  to  approach. 

"  You,  sir,  —  moind  I  never  peach,  —  setting  up  here 
in  the  honest  line?     Dull  work,  honesty,  — eh?  " 

"  Sir,  I  really  don't  know  you. " 

"  Daun't  you  recollect  old  Gregg's,  the  evening  you 
came  there  with  jolly  Bill  Gawtrey?  Recollect  thatj 
eh?" 

Philip  was  mute. 

"  I  was  among  the  gentlemen  in  the  back-parlor  who 
shook  you  by  the  hand.  Bill 's  off  to  France  then.  I 
am  tanking  the  provinces.  I  want  a  good  horse,  —  the 
best  in  the  yard,  moind!  Cutting  such  a  swell  here! 
My  name  is  Captain  de  Burgh  Smith,  —  never  moind 
yours,  my  fine  faellow.  Now  then,  out  with  your  rat- 
tlers, and  keep  your  tongue  in  your  mouth." 

Philip  mechanically  ordered  out  the  brown  mare,  which 
Captain  Smith  did  not  seem  much  to  approve  of;  and, 
after  glancing  round  the  stables  with  great  disdain  of  the 
collection,  he  sauntered  out  of  the  yard  without  saying 
more  to  Philip,  though  he  stopped  and  spoke  a  few 
sentences  to  Mr.  Stubmore.  Philip  hoped  he  had  no 
design  of  purchasing,  and  that  he  Avas  rid,  for  the  pres- 
ent, of  so  awkward  a  customer.  Mr.  Stubmore  approached 
Philip. 

"  Drive  over  the  grays  to  Sir  John, "  said  he.  "  My 
lady  wants  a  pair  to  job.  A  very  pleasant  man,  that 
Captain    Smith.     I   did  not  know   you   had   been  in  a 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  201 

yard  "before, — s<ays  you  were  the  pet  at  Elmore's  in 
London.  Served  him  many  a  day.  Pleasant  gentleman- 
like man  !  " 

"  Y-e-s !  "  said  Philip,  hardly  knowing  what  he  said, 
and  hurrying  back  into  the  stables  to  order  out  the 
grays. 

The  place  to  which  he  was  bound  was  some  miles 
distant,  and  it  was  sunset  when  he  returned.  As  he 
drove  into  the  main  street,  two  men  observed  him 
closely. 

"  That  is  he!  I  am  almost  sure  it  is,"  said  one. 

"  Oh !  then  it 's  all  smooth  sailing, "  replied  the 
other. 

"  But,  bless  my  eyes !  you  must  be  mistaken.  See 
whom  he's  talking  to  now!" 

At  that  moment.  Captain  de  Burgh  Smith,  mounted 
on  the  brown  mare,  stopped  Philip. 

"Well,  you  see,  I've  bought  her, —  hope  she  '11  turn 
out  well.  What  do  you  really  think  she  's  worth  1  Not 
to  buy,  but  to  sell  1  " 

"  Sixty  guineas. " 

"  Well,  that 's  a  good  day's  work ;  and  I  owe  it  to  you. 
The  old  faellow  would  not  have  trusted  me  if  you  had 
not  served  me  at  Elmore's, — ha!  —  ha!  If  he  gets 
scent  and  looks  shy  at  you,  my  lad,  come  to  me.  I  'm 
at  the  Star  Hotel  for  the  next  few  days.  I  Avant  a 
tight  faellow  like  you,  and  you  shall  have  a  fair  percen- 
tage. I  'm  none  of  your  stingy  ones.  I  say,  I  hope  this 
devil  is  quiet  ?     She  cocks  up  her  ears  dawmnably !  " 

"  Look  you,  sir !  "  said  Philip,  very  gravely,  and  ris- 
ing up  in  his  break ;  "  I  know  very  little  of  you,  and 
that  little  is  not  much  to  your  credit.  I  give  you  fair 
warning,  that  I  shall  caution  my  employer  against 
you. " 


202  NIGHT   AND   MOKNING. 

"  Will  you,  my  fine  faellow  1  —  then  take  care  of 
yourself." 

"  Stay !  and  if  you  dare  utter  a  word  against  me, "  said 
Philip,  "with  that  frown  to  Avhich  his  swarthy  complexion 
and  flashing  eyes  gave  an  expression  of  fierce  power  be- 
yond his  years,  "  you  will  find  that,  as  I  am  the  last 
to  care  for  a  threat,  so  I  am  the  first  to  resent  an 
injury!" 

Thus  saying,  he  drove  on.  Captain  Smith  affected  a 
cough,  and  put  his  brown  mare  into  a  canter.  The  tAvo 
men  followed  Philip  as  he  drove  into  the  yard. 

"  What  do  you  know  against  the  person  he  spoke  to  ?  " 
said  one  of  them, 

"  Merely  that  he  is  one  of  the  cunningest  swells  on 
this  side  the  Bay, "  returned  the  other.  "  It  looks  bad 
for  your  young  friend. " 

The  first  speaker  shook  his  head,  and  made  no  reply. 

On  gaining  the  yard,  Philip  found  that  Mr.  Stubmore 
had  gone  out,  and  was  not  expected  home  till  the  next 
day.  He  had  some  relations  who  were  farmers,  whom  he 
often  visited;  to  them  he  was  probably  gone. 

Philip,  therefore,  deferring  his  intended  caution  against 
the  gay  captain  till  the  morrow,  and  musing  how  the 
caution  might  be  most  discreetly  given,  walked  home- 
ward. He  had  just  entered  the  lane  that  led  to  his  lodg- 
ings, when  he  saw  the  two  men  I  have  spoken  of  on  the 
other  side  of  the  street.  The  taller  and  better-dressed  of 
the  two  left  his  comrade,  and,  crossing  over  to  Philip, 
bowed,  and  thus  accosted  him, — 

"  Fine  evening,  Mr.  Philip  Morton.  I  am  rejoiced  to 
see  you  at  last.  You  remember  me,  —  Mr.  Blackwell, 
Lincoln's  Inn!  " 

"  What  is  your  business  ?  "  said  Philip,  halting,  and 
speaking  short  and  fiercely. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  203 

"  Now  don't  be  in  a  passion,  my  dear  sir,  —  now  don't. 
I  am  here  on  behalf  of  my  clients,  Messrs.  Beaufort,  sen. 
and  jun.  I  have  had  such  work  to  find  you !  Dear, 
dear !  but  you  are  a  sly  one !  Ha  !  ha  !  Well,  you  see 
we  have  settled  that  little  affair  of  Plaskwith's  for  you 
(might  have  been  ugly),  and  now  I  hope  you  will —  " 

"  To  your  business,  sir  !    Wliat  do  you  want  with  me  ?  " 

"Why,  now,  don't  be  so  quick!  'Tis  not  the  Avay  to 
do  business.  Suppose  you  step  to  my  hotel.  A  glass  of 
wine,  now,  Mr.  Philip !  We  shall  soon  luiderstand  each 
other." 

"  Out  of  my  path,  or  speak  plainly  !  " 

Thus  put  to  it,  the  lawyer,  casting  a  glance  at  his  stout 
companion,  who  appeared  to  be  contemplating  the  sunset 
on  the  other  side  of  the  way,  came  at  once  to  the  marrow 
of  his  subject. 

"  Well,  then, —  well,  my  say  is  soon  said.  Mr.  Arthur 
Beaufort  takes  a  most  lively  interest  in  you ;  it  is  he  who 
has  directed  this  inquiry.  He  bids  me  say  that  he 
shall  be  most  happy  —  yes,  most  happy  —  to  serve  you 
in  anything;  and  if  you  will  but  see  him,  he  is  in  the 
town,  I  am  sure  you  will  be  charmed  with  him,  —  most 
amiable  young  man!  " 

"  Look  you,  sir, "  said  Philip,  drawing  himself  up : 
"  neither  from  father,  nor  from  son,  nor  from  one  of  that 
family,  on  whose  heads  rest  the  mother's  death  and  the 
orphan's  curse,  will  I  ever  accept  boon  or  benefit, —  with 
them,  voluntarily,  I  will  hold  no  communion;  if  they 
force  themselves  in  my  path,  let  them  beware!  I  am 
earning  my  bread  in  the  way  I  desire :  I  am  independent, 
—  I  want  them  not.     Begone !  " 

With  that,  Philip  pushed  aside  the  lawyer  and  strode 
on  rapidly.  Mr.  Blackwell,  abashed  and  perplexed, 
returned  to  his  companion. 


204  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

Philip  regained  his  home,  and  found  Sidney  stationed 
at  the  window  alone,  and  with  wistful  eyes  noting  the 
flight  of  the  gray  moths,  as  they  darted  to  and  fro  across 
the  dull  shruhs,  that,  variegated  with  lines  for  washing, 
adorned  the  plot  of  ground  which  the  landlady  called  a. 
garden.  The  elder  brother  liad  returned  at  an  earlier 
hour  than  usual,  and  Sidney  did  not  at  first  perceive  him 
enter.  When  he  did,  he  clapped  his  hands  and  ran  to 
him. 

"  This  is  so  good  in  you,  Philip.  I  have  been  so  dull ; 
you  will  come  and  play  now  1  " 

"  With  all  my  heart,  —  where  shall  we  play  1  "  said 
Philip,  with  a  cheerful  smile. 

"  Oh,  in  the  garden !  —  it 's  such  a  nice  time  for  hide- 
and-seek.  " 

"  But  is  it  not  chill  and  damp  for  you  1  "  said  Philip. 

"  There  now ;  you  are  always  making  excuses.  I  see 
you  don't  like  it.     I  have  no  heart  to  play  now. " 

Sidney  seated  himself  and  pouted. 

"  Poor  Sidney  !  you  must  be  dull  without  me.  Yes, 
let  us  play;  but  put  on  this  handkerchief;"  and  Philip 
took  off  his  own  cravat  and  tied  it  round  his  brother's 
neck  and  kissed  him. 

Sidney,  whose  anger  seldom  lasted  long,  was  reconciled ; 
and  they  went  into  the  garden  to  play.  It  was  a  little 
spot,  screened  by  an  old  moss-grown  paling  from  the 
neighboring  garden  on  the  one  side,  and  a  lane  on  the 
other.  They  played  with  great  glee  till  the  night  grew 
darker  and  the  dews  heavier. 

"  This  must  be  the  last  time, "  cried  Philip.  "  It  is 
my  turn  to  hide." 

"Very  well!     Xow,  then." 

Philip  .secreted  himself  behind  a  poplar;  and  as  Sid- 
ney searched  for  him,  and  Philip  stole  round  and  round 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  205 

the  tree,  the  latter,  happening  to  look  across  the  paling, 
saw  the  dim  outline  of  a  man's  figure  in  the  lane,  who 
appeared  watching  them.  A  thrill  shot  across  his  hreast. 
These  Beauforts,  associated  in  his  thoughts  with  every 
ill  omen  and  augury,  had  they  set  a  spy  upon  his  move- 
ments ?  He  remained  erect  and  gazing  at  the  form,  when 
Sidney  discovered  and  ran  up  to  him  with  his  noisy 
laugh. 

As  the  child  clung  to  him,  shouting  with  gladness, 
Philip,  unheeding  his  playmate,  called  aloud  and  imperi- 
ously to  the  stranger, — 

"  What  are  you  gaping  at  1  Why  do  you  stand  watch- 
ing us  1  " 

The  man  muttered  something,  moved  on,  and  dis- 
appeared. 

"  I  hope  there  are  no  thieves  here !  I  am  so  much 
afraid  of  thieves,"  said  Sidney,  tremulously. 

The  fear  grated  on  Philip's  heart.  Had  he  not  him- 
self, perhaps,  been  judged  and  treated  as  a  thief?  He 
said  nothing,  but  drew  his  brother  within:  and  there, 
in  their  little  room,  by  the  one  poor  candle,  it  was 
touching  and  beautiful  to  see  these  boys,  —  the  tender 
patience  of  the  elder  lending  itself  to  every  whim  of  the 
younger,  now  building  houses  with  cards,  now  telling 
stories  of  fairy  and  knight-errant,  the  sprightliest  he 
could  remember  or  invent.  At  length,  all  was  over,  and 
Sidney  was  undressing  for  the  night,  Philip,  standing 
apart,  said  to  him  in  a  mournful  voice, — 

"  Are  you  sad  now,  Sidney  1 " 

"No!  not  when  you  are  with  me, — but  that  is  so 
seldom. " 

"  Do  you  read  none  of  the  story-books  I  bought  for 
you?" 

"  Sometimes !  but  one  can't  read  all  day. " 


206  NIGHT   AST)   MORNING. 

"  All !  Sidney,  if  ever  we  should  part,  perhaps  you  will 
love  me  no  longer!  " 

"  Don't  say  so, "  said  Sidney.  ''  But  we  sha'n't  part, 
Philip !  " 

Philip  sighed,  and  turned  away  as  his  brother  leaped 
into  bed.  Something  whispered  to  him  that  danger  was 
near:  and  as  it  was,  could  Sidney  grow  up  neglected 
and  uneducated;  was  it  thus  that  he  was  to  fulfil  his 
trust? 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  207 


CHAPTER  IX. 

But  oh,  what  storm  was  iu  that  mind  !  —  Ckabbe  :  Ruth, 

While  Philip  mused,  and  his  brother  fell  into  the  happy 
sleep  of  childhood,  in  a  room  in  the  principal  hotel  of 
the  town  sat  three  persons,  Arthur  Beaufort,  Mr. 
Spencer,  and  Mr.  Blackwell. 

"And  so,"  said  the  first,  "he  rejected  every  overture 
from  the  Beauforts  1  " 

"  With  a  scorn  I  cannot  convey  to  you !  "  replied  the 
lawyer.  "  But  the  fact  is,  that  he  is  evidently  a  lad  of 
low  habits ;  to  think  of  his  being  a  sort  of  helper  to  a 
horse-dealer!  I  suppose,  sir,  he  was  always  in  the 
stables  in  his  father's  time.  Bad  company  depraves 
the  taste  very  soon,  but  that  is  not  the  worst.  Sharp 
declares  that  the  man  he  was  talking  with,  as  I  told 
you,  is  a  common  swindler.  Depend  on  it,  Mr.  Arthur, 
he  is  incorrigible ;  all  we  can  do  is  to  save  the  brother. " 

"  It  is  too  dreadful  to  contemplate !  "  said  Arthur, 
who,  still  ill  and  languid,  reclined  on  a  sofa. 

"  It  is,  indeed, "  said  Mr.  Spencer ;  "I  am  sure  I 
should  not  know  what  to  do  with  such  a  character ;  but  the 
other  poor  child,  it  would  be  a  mercy  to  get  hold  of  him." 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Sharp  1  "  asked  Arthur. 

"  Why,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  he  has  followed  Philip  at  a 
distance  to  find  out  his  lodgings,  and  learn  if  his  brother 
is  with  him.  Oh,  here  he  is!  "  and  Blackwell's  com- 
panion in  the  earlier  part  of  the  evening  entered. 

"  I  have  found  him  out,  sir, "  said  Mr.  Sharp,  wiping 
his  forehead.     "  "Wliat  a  fierce  un  he  is !     I  thought  he 


208  NIGHT   AND   MOKNING. 

would  have  had  a  stone  at  my  head ;  but  we  officers  are 
used  to  it:  we  does  our  duty,  and  Providence  makes  our 
heads  unkimmon  hard!  " 

"  Is  the  child  with  him  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Spencer. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  A  little,  quiet,  subdued  boy  1  "  asked  the  melancholy 
inhabitant  of  the  Lakes. 

"  Quiet !  Lord  love  you !  never  heard  a  noisier  little 
urchin!  There  they  were,  romping  and  roupmg  in  the 
garden,  like  a  couple  of  jail-birds. " 

"  You  see, "  groaned  Mr.  Spencer,  "  he  will  make  that 
poor  child  as  bad  as  himself. " 

"  What  shall  us  do,  Mr.  Blackwell  1  "  asked  Sharp, 
who  longed  for  his  brandy-and-water. 

"  Why,  I  Avas  thinkmg  you  might  go  to  the  horse- 
dealer  the  first  thing  in  the  morning ;  find  out  whether 
Philip  is  really  thick  with  the  swindler;  and,  perhaps, 
Mr.  Stubmore  may  have  some  influence  with  him,  if, 
without  saying  who  he  is  —  " 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  Arthur,  "  do  not  expose  his  name." 

"  You  could  still  hint  tliat  he  ouglit  to  be  induced  to 
listen  to  his  friends  and  go  with  them.  Mr.  Stubmore 
may  be  a  respectable  man,  and  —  " 

"  I  understand,"  said  Sharp;  "  I  have  no  doubt  as  how 
I  can  settle  it.  We  learns  to  know  human  natur  in  our 
profession,  —  'cause  why  ?  —  we  gets  at  its  blind  side. 
Good-night,  gentlemen !  " 

"  You  seem  very  pale,  Mr.  Arthur ;  you  had  better  go 
to  bed :  you  promised  your  father,  you  know. " 

"  Yes,  I  am  not  well :  I  will  go  to  bed :  "  and  Arthur 
ro.se,  lighted  his  candle,  and  sought  his  room. 

"I  will  see  Philip  to-morrow,"  he  said  to  himself; 
"  he  will  listen  to  me. " 

The   conduct   of   Arthur   Beaufort   in    executing    the 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  209 

charge  he  had  undertaken,  had  brought  into  full  light  all 
the  most  amiable  and  generous  part  of  his  character.  As 
soon  as  he  was  sufficiently  recovered,  he  had  expressed 
so  much  anxiety  as  to  the  fate  of  the  orphans,  that  to 
quiet  him  his  father  was  forced  to  send  for  Mr.  Black- 
well.      Tlie  lawyer  had  ascertained,    through  Dr.  , 

the  name  of  Philip's  employer  at  E, .     At  Arthur's 

request  he  went  down  to  Mr.  Plaskwith,  and,  arriving 
there  the  day  after  the  return  of  the  bookseller,  learned 
those  particulars  with  which  Mr.  Plaskwith's  letter  to 
Roger  Morton  has  already  made  the  reader  acqi;ainted. 
The  lawyer  then  sent  for  'Mr.  Sharp,  the  officer  before 
employed,  and  commissioned  him  to  track  the  young 
man's  whereabout.  That  shrewd  functionary  sonn  re- 
ported that  a  youth  every  way  answering  to  Philip's 
description  had  been  introduced,  the  night  of  the  escape, 
by  a  man  celebrated,  not  indeed  for  robberies,  or  lar- 
cenies, or  crimes  of  the  coarser  kind,  but  for  address  in  all 
that  more  large  and  complex  character  which  comes  under 
the  denomination  of  living  upon  one's  wits,  to  a  polite 
rendezvous  frequented  by  persons  of  a  similar  profession. 
Since  then,  however,  all  clew  of  Philip  was  lost.  But 
though  Mr.  Blackwell,  in  the  way  of  his  profession,  was 
thus  publicly  benevolent  towards  the  fugitive,  he  did  not 
the  less  privately  represent  to  his  patrons,  senior  and 
junior,  the  very  equivocal  character  that  Philip  must  be 
allowed  to  bear.  Like  most  lawyers,  hard  upon  all  who 
wander  from  the  formal  tracks,  he  unaffectedly  regarded 
Philip's  flight  and  absence  as  proofs  of  a  very  reprobate 
disposition;  and  this  conduct  was  greatly  aggravated  in 
his  eyes  by  Mr.  Sharp's  report,  by  which  it  appeared 
that  after  his  escape  Philip  had  so  suddenly,  and,  as  it 
were,  so  naturally,  taken  to  such  equivocal  companion- 
ship.    Mr.   Kobert  Beaufort,  already  prejudiced  against 

VOL.  I.  — 14 


210  NIGKT    AND    MORNING. 

Philip,  viewed  matters  in  the  same  light  as  the  lawyer; 
and  the  story  of  his  supposed  predilections  reached 
Arthur's  ears  in  so  distorted  a  shape  that  even  he  was 
staggered  and  revolted :  still  Philip  was  so  young,  Arthur's 
oath  to  the  orphans'  mother  so  recent,  —  and  if  thus 
early  inclined  to  wrong  courses,  should  not  every  effort 
be  made  to  lure  him  back  to  the  straight  path  ?  With 
these  views  and  reasonings,  as  soon  as  he  was  able, 
Arthur  himself  visited  Mrs.  Lacy,  and  the  note  from 
Philip,  which  the  good  ladj'^  put  into  his  hands,  affected 
him  deeply,  and  confirmed  all  his  previous  resolutions. 
Mrs.  Lacy  was  very  anxious  to  get  at  his  name ;  but 
Arthur,  having  heard  that  Philip  had  refused  all  aid 
from  his  father  and  Mr.  Blackwell,  tliou<:jht  that  the 
young  man's  pride  might  work  equally  against  himself, 
and  therefore  evaded  the  landlady's  curiosity.  He  wrote 
the  next  day  the  letter  we  have  seen  to  Mr.  Poger  Mor- 
ton, whose  address  Catherine  had  given  to  him:  and  by 
return  of  post  came  a  letter  from  the  linen-draper  narrat- 
ing the  flight  of  Sidney,  as  it  was  supposed,  with  his 
brother.     This  news  so  excited  Arthur,  that  he  insisted 

on  going  down  to  N at  once,    and  joining  in  the 

search.  His  father,  alarmed  for  his  health,  positively 
refused ;  and  the  consequence  was  an  increase  of  fever, 
a  consultation  with  the  doctors,  and  a  declaration  that 
Mr.  Arthur  was  in  that  state  that  it  would  be  dangerous 
not  to  let  him  have  his  own  way.  Mr.  Beaufort  was 
forced  to  yield,  and  with  Blackwell  and  Mr.  Sharp  ac- 
companied his  son  to  N .     The  inquiries,   hitherto 

fruitless,  then  assumed  a  more  regular  and  businesslike 
character.  By  little  and  little  they  came,  through  the 
aid  of  Mr.  Sharp,  upon  the  right  clew,  up  to  a  certain 
point.  But  here  there  was  a  double  scent:  two  youthn 
answering  the  description  had  been  seen  at  a  small  vil- 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING,  211 

lage;  then  there  came  those  who  asserted  tliat  they  had 
seen  the  same  youths  at  a  seaport  in  one  direction ; 
others,  who  deposed  to  their  having  taken  the  road  to  an 
inland  town  in  the  other.  This  had  induced  Arthur  and 
his  father  to  part  company.  Mr.  Beaufort,  accompanied 
by  Roger  Morton,  went  to  tlie  seaport;  and  Arthur, 
with  Mr.  Spencer  and  Mr.  Sharp,  more  fortunate, 
tracked  the  fugitives  to  their  retreat.  As  for  Mr.  Beau- 
fort, senior,  now  that  his  mind  was  more  at  ease  ahout 
his  son,  he  was  thorouglily  sick  of  the  whole  thing; 
greatly  bored  by  the  society  of  Mr.  Morton;  very  much 
ashamed  that  he,  so  respectable  and  great  a  man,  should 
be  employed  on  such  an  errand;  more  afraid  of,  than 
pleased  with  any  chance  of  discovering  the  fierce  Philip ; 
and  secretly  resolved  upon  sUnking  back  to  London  at 
the  first  reasonable  excuse. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Sharp  entered  betimes  Mr. 
Stubmore's  counting-house.  In  the  yard  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Philip,  and  managed  to  keep  himself  unseen 
by  that  young  gentleman. 

"Mr.  Stubmore,  I  think?" 

"  At  your  service,  sir. " 

Mr.  Sharp  shut  the  glass  door  mysteriously,  and, 
lifting  up  the  corner  of  a  green  curtain  that  covered  the 
panes,  beckoned  to  the  startled  Stubmore  to  approach. 

"  You  see  tliat  'ere  young  man  in  the  velveteen 
jacket;  you  employs  him?  " 

"  I  do,  sir;  he  is  my  right  hand." 

"Well,  now,  don't  be  frightened,  but  his  friends  are 
arter  him.  He  has  got  into  bad  ways,  and  we  want  you 
to  give  him  a  little  good  advice." 

"  Pooh!  I  know  he  has  run  away,  like  a  fine-spirited 
lad  as  he  is;  and  as  long  as  he  likes  to  stay  with  me, 
they  as  comes  after  him  may  get  a  ducking  in  the  horse- 
trough!  " 


212  NIGHT   AND   MOENING. 

"Be  you  a  father,  — a  father  of  a  family,  Mr.  Stub- 
more  1  "  said  Sharp,  thrusting  his  hands  into  his 
breeches-pockets,  swelling  out  his  stomach,  and  pursing 
up  his  lips  with  great  solemnity. 

"Nonsense!  no  gammon  with  me!  Take  your  chaff 
to  the  goslings.  I  tells  you  I  can't  do  without  that  'ere 
lad.     Every  man  to  himself." 

"  Oho !  "  thought  Sharp,  "  I  must  change  the  tack. 
]\[r.  Stubmore,"  said  he,  taking  a  stool,  "  you  speaks 
like  a  sensible  man.  No  one  can  reasonably  go  for  to 
ask  a  gentleman  to  go  for  to  inconvenience  his-self. 
But  what  do  you  know  of  that  'ere  youngster?  Had 
you  a  carakter  with  him  ?  " 

"  What's  that  to  you?" 

"  Why,  it 's  more  to  yourself,  Mr.  Stubmore ;  he  is  but 
a  lad,  and  if  he  goes  back  to  his  friends  they  may  take 
care  of  him,  Imt  he  got  into  a  bad  set  afore  he  come 
here.  Do  you  know  a  good-looking  chap  with  whiskers, 
who  talks  of  his  phe-aton,  and  was  riding  last  night  on 
a  brown  mare  ?  " 

"Y-e-s!"  said  Mr.  Stubmore,  growing  rather  pale, 
"  and  I  knows  the  mare,  too.  Why,  sir,  I  sold  him 
that  mare!  " 

"  Did  he  pay  you  for  her?  " 

"  W^hy,  to  be  sure,  he  gave  me  a  check  on  Coutts." 

"  And  you  took  it !  My  eyes !  what  a  flat !  "  Here 
Mr.  Sharp  closed  the  orbs  he  had  invoked,  and  whistled 
with  that  self-hugging  delight  which  men  invariably  feel 
when  another  man  is  taken  in. 

Mr.  Stubmore  became  evidently  nervous. 

"  Why,  what  now!  —  you  don't  think  I  'm  done?  I 
did  not  let  him  have  the  mare  till  I  went  to  the  hotel, 
—  found  he  was  cutting  a  great  dash  there,  a  groom, 
a  phe-aton,  and  a  fine  horse,  and  as  extravagant  as  the 
devil!" 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  213 

"  0  Lord !  —  0  Lord !  what  a  world  this  is !  What 
does  he  call  his-self 1  " 

"Why,  here's  the  clieck,  —  George  Frederick  de  — 
de  Burgh  Smith." 

" Put  it  in  your  pipe,  my  man,  —  put  it  in  your  pipe; 
not  worth  a  d !  " 

"  And  who  the  deuce  are  you,  sir?  "  bawled  oiit  Mr. 
Stubraore,  in  an  equal  rage  both  with  himself  and  his 
guest. 

"  I,  sir,"  said  the  visitor,  rising  with  great  dignity, 
—  "I,  sir,  am  of  the  great  Bow  Street  Office,  and  my 
name  is  John  Sharp !  " 

Mr.  Stubmore  nearly  fell  off  his  stool,  his  eyes  rolled 
in  his  head,  and  his  teeth  chattered.  Mr.  Sharp  per- 
ceived the  advantage  he  had  gained,  and  continued, — 

"  Yes,  sir;  and  I  could  have  much  to  say  against  that 
chap,  who  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  Dashing  Jerry, 
as  has  ruined  more  girls  and  more  tradesmen  than  any 
lord  in  the  land.  And  so  I  called  to  give  you  a  bit  of 
caution;  'for,'  says  I  to  myself,  'Mr.  Stubmore  is  a 
respectable  man. '  " 

"  I  hope  I  am,  sir,"  said  the  crest-fallen  horse-dealer; 
"  that  was  always  my  character. " 

"  And  the  father  of  a  family  1  " 

"Three  boys  and  a  babe  at  the  buzzom,"  said  Mr. 
Stubmore,  pathetically. 

"  And  he  sha'n't  be  taken  in  if  I  can  help  it!  That 
'ere  young  man  as  I  am  arter,  you  see,  knows  Captain 
Smith,  —  ha!  ha!  —  smell  a  rat  now  —  eh?  " 

"  Captain  Smith  said  he  knew  him,  —  the  wiper,  — 
and  that 's  what  made  me  so  green." 

"  Well,  we  must  not  be  hard  on  the  youngster;  'cause 
why,  he  has  friends  as  is  gemmen.  But  you  tell  him 
to  go  back  to  his  poor,  dear  relations,  and  all  shall  be 


214  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

forgiven;  and  say  as  how  you  won't  keep  him;  and  if 
he  don't  go  back,  he  '11  have  to  get  his  livelihood  with- 
out a  carakter;  and  use  your  influence  with  him  like  a 
man  and  a  Christian,  and  what  's  more,  like  the  father 
of  a  family,  Mr.  Stubraore,  with  three  boys  and  a  babe 
at  the  buzzom.     You  won't  keep  him  now  1  " 

"Keep  him!  I  have  had  a  precious  escape.  I'd 
better  go  and  see  after  the  mare. " 

"  I  doubt  if  you  '11  find  her;  the  captain  caught  a  sight 
of  me  this  morning.  Why,  he  lodges  at  our  hotel! 
He's  off  by  this  time!  " 

"  And  why  the  devil  did  you  let  him  go?  " 

"'Cause  I  had  no  writ  agin  him!"  said  the  Bow 
Street  officer;  and  he  walked  straight  out  of  the  count- 
ing-office, satisfied  that  he  had  "  done  the  job." 

To  snatch  his  hat,  tu  run  to  the  hotel,  to  find  that 
Captain  Smith  had  indeed  gone  off  in  his  phaeton,  bag 
and  baggage,  the  same  as  he  came,  except  that  he  had 
now  two  horses  to  the  phaeton  instead  of  one, — having 
left  with  the  landlord  the  amount  of  his  bill  in  another 
check  upon  Coutts,  —  was  the  work  of  five  minutes 
with  Mr.  Stubmore.  He  returned  home,  panting  and 
purple  with  indignation  and  wounded  feeling. 

"  To  think  that  chap,  whom  I  took  into  my  yard  like 
a  son,  should  have  connived  at  this!  'T  ain't  tlie  money, 
—  'tis  the  willany  that  'flicts  me!"  muttered  Mr. 
Stubmore,  as  he  re-entered  the  mews. 

Here  he  came  plump  upon  Philip,  who  said,  — 

"  Sir,  I  wished  to  see  you,  to  say  that  you  had  better 
take  care  of  Ca])tain  Smith." 

"  Oh,  you  did,  did  you,  now  he  's  gone  ?  —  'sconded  off 
to  America,  I  daresay,  by  this  time.  Now  look  ye, 
young  man:  your  friends  are  after  you,  I  won't  say 
anything  agin  you;  but  you  go  back  to  them,  —  I  wash 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  215 

my  hands  of  you.  Quite  too  much  for  me.  Tliere  's 
your  week,  and  never  let  me  catch  you  in  my  yard  agin, 
that 's  all !  " 

Philip  dropped  the  money  which  Stubmore  had  put 
into  his  hand.  "My  friends!  —  friends  have  been 
with  you,  have  they?  I  thought  so,  —  I  thank  them. 
And  so  you  part  with  me?  Well,  you  have  been  kind, 
very  kind ;  let  us  part  kindly ;  "  and  he  held  out  his 
hand. 

Mr.  Stubmore  was  softened,  —  he  touched  the  hand 
lielil  out  to  hira,  and  looked  doubtful  a  moment;  but 
Captain  de  Burgh  Smith's  check  for  eighty  guineas 
suddenly  rose  before  his  eyes.  He  turned  on  his  heel 
abruptly,  and  said,  over  his  shoulder,  — 

"  Don't  go  after  Captain  Smith  (he  '11  come  to  the 
gallows) ;  mend  your  ways,  and  be  ruled  by  your  poor, 
dear  relatives,  whose  hearts  you  are  breaking." 

"  Captain  Smith!     Did  my  relations  tell  you?  " 

"  Yes  —  yes;  they  told  me  all,  — that  is,  they  sent  to 
tell  me;  so  you  see  I  'm  d — d  soft  not  to  lay  hold  of 
you.  But,  perhaps,  if  they  be  gemmen,  they  '11  act  as 
sich,  and  casli  me  this  here  check!  " 

But  the  last  words  were  said  to  air.  Philip  had 
rushed  from  the  yard. 

With  a  heaving  breast,  and  every  nerve  in  his  body 
quivering  with  wrath,  the  proud,  unhappy  boy  strode 
through  the  gay  streets.  They  had  betrayed  him  then, 
these  accursed  Beauforts;  they  circled  his  steps  with 
schemes  to  drive  him  like  a  deer  into  the  snare  of  their 
loatlisome  charity!  The  roof  was  to  be  taken  from  his 
head,  the  bread  from  his  lips,  so  that  he  miglit  fawn  at 
their  knees  for  bounty.  "  But  they  shall  not  break  my 
spirit,  nor  steal  away  my  curse.  No,  my  dead  mother, 
never!  " 


216  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

As  he  thus  rrmtterecl,  he  passed  through  a  patch  of 
waste  laud  tliat  led  to  the  row  of  houses  in  which  his 
lodging  was  placed.  And  here  a  voice  called  to  him, 
and  a  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder.  He  turned,  and 
Arthur  Beaufort,  who  had  followed  him  from  the  street, 
stood  behind  him.  Philip  did  not,  at  the  first  glance, 
recognize  his  cousin.  Illness  had  so  altered  liim,  and 
his  dress  was  so  different  from  that  in  which  he  had  first 
and  last  beheld  him.  The  contrast  between  the  two 
young  men  was  remarkable.  Philip  was  clad  in  the 
rough  garb  suited  to  his  late  calling,  —  a  jacket  of  black 
velveteen,  ill-fitting  and  ill-fashioned,  loose  fustian 
trousers,  coarse  shoes,  his  hat  set  deep  over  his  pent 
eyebrows,  his  raven  hair  long  and  neglected.  He  was 
just  at  that  age  when  one  with  strong  features  and  robust 
frame  is  at  the  worst  in  point  of  appearance :  the  sinewy 
proportions  not  yet  sufficiently  fleshed,  and  seeming 
inharmonious  and  undeveloped,  —  precisely  in  propor- 
tion, perhaps,  to  the  symmetry  towards  which  they  in- 
sensibly mature ;  the  contour  of  the  face  sharpened  from 
the  roundness  of  boyhood,  and  losing  its  bloom  without 
yet  acquiring  that  relief  and  shadow  which  make  the 
expression  and  dignity  of  the  masculine  countenance. 
Thus  accoutred,  thus  gaunt  and  uncouth,  stood  ]\[orton. 
Arthur  Beaufort,  always  refined  in  his  appearance, 
seemed  yet  more  so  from  the  almost  feminine  delicacy 
which  ill  health  threw  over  his  pale  complexion  and 
graceful  figure ;  that  sort  of  unconscious  elegance  which 
belongs  to  the  dress  of  the  rich  when  they  are  young, — • 
seen  most  in  minutiae,  not  observable,  perhaps,  by  them- 
selves, —  marked  forcibly  and  painfully  the  distinction  of 
rank  between  the  two.  That  distinction  Beaufort  did 
not  feel ;  but  at  a  glance  it  was  visible  to  Philip. 

The  past  rushed  back  on  him.     Tlie  sunny  lawn,  the 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  217 

gun  offered  and  rejected,  —  the  pride  of  old,  much  less 
haughty  than  the  pride  of  to-day. 

"Philip,"  said  Beaufort,  feebly,  "they  tell  me  you 
will  not  accept  any  kindness  from  me  or  mine.  Ah! 
if  you  knew  how  we  have  sought  you!  " 

"Knew!"  cried  Philip,  savagely,  for  that  unlucky 
sentence  recalled  to  him  his  late  interview  with  his 
employer,  and  his  present  destitution.  "Knew!  And 
why  have  you  dared  to  hunt  me  out,  and  halloo  me 
(Jown?  —  why  must  this  insolent  tyranny,  that  assumes 
the  right  over  these  limbs  and  this  free  will,  betray  and 
expose  me  and  my  wretchedness  wherever  I  turn  ?  " 

"  Your  poor  mother  —  "  began  Beaufort. 

"Name  her  not  with  your  lips,  —  name  her  not!" 
cried  Philip,  growing  livid  with  his  emotions.  "  Talk 
not  of  the  mercy  —  the  forethought  —  a  I'eaufort  could 
show  to  her  and  her  offspring!  I  accept  it  not,  —  I  be- 
lieve it  not.  Oh,  yes!  you  folloAV  me  now  with  your 
false  kindness;  and  why  ?  Because  your  father,  —  your 
vain,  hollow,  heartless  father  —  " 

"  Hold !  "  said  Beaufort,  in  a  tone  of  such  reproach 
that  it  startled  the  wild  heart  on  which  it  fell ;  "  it  is 
my  father  you  speak  of.      Let  the  son  respect  the  son." 

"  No  —  no  —  no !  I  will  respect  none  of  your  race.  I 
tell  you,  your  father  fears  me.  I  tell  you,  that  my  last 
words  to  him  ring  in  his  ears!  My  wrongs!  Arthur 
Beaufort,  when  you  are  absent  I  seek  to  forget  them; 
in  your  abhorred  presence  they  revive,  they  — •  " 

He  stopped,  almost  choked  with  his  passion,  but 
continued  instantly,  with  equal  intensity  of  fervor,  — 

"  Were  yon  tree  the  gibbet,  and  to  touch  your  hand 
could  alone  save  me  from  it,  I  would  scorn  your  aid! 
Aid!  the  very  thought  fires  my  blood  and  nerves  my 
hand.     Aid!     Will  a  Beaufort  give  me  back  my  birth- 


218  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

right,  —  restore  my  dead  mother's  fair  name?  Minion! 
—  sleek,  dainty,  luxurious  minion! — out  of  my  path! 
You  have  my  fortune,  my  station,  my  rights;  I  have 
but  poverty  and  hate  and  disdain.  I  swear,  again  and 
again,  that  you  shall  not  purchase  these  from  me." 

"But,  Philip  —  Philip,"  cried  Beaufort,  catching  his 
arm  ;  "  hear  one  —  hear  one  who  stood  by  your  —  " 

The  sentence  that  would  have  saved  the  outcast  from 
the  demons  that  were  darkening  and  swooping  round 
his  soul,  died  upon  the  young  protector's  lips.  Blinded, 
maddened,  excited,  and  exasperated,  almost  out  of  hu- 
manity itself,  Philip  fiercely,  brutally,  swung  aside  the 
enfeebled  form  that  souglit  to  cling  to  him,  and  Beaufort 
fell  at  his  feet.  Morton  stopped,  glared  at  him  with 
clenched  hands  and  a  smiling  lip,  sprang  over  his  pros- 
trate form,  and  bounded  to  his  home. 

He  slackened  his  pace  as  he  neared  the  house,  and 
looked  behind;  but  Beaufort  had  not  followed  him. 
He  entered  the  house,  and  found  Sidney  in  the  room, 
with  a  countenance  so  much  more  gay  than  that  he  had 
lately  worn,  that,  absorbed  as  he  was  in  thought  and 
passion,  it  yet  did  not  fail  to  strike  him. 

"  What  has  pleased  you,  Sidney  1  " 

The  child  smiled. 

"Ah!  it  is  a  secret,  —  I  was  not  to  tell  you.  But 
I  'm  sure  you  are  not  the  naughty  boy  he  says  you  are." 

"He!   who?" 

"  Don't  look  so  angry,  Philip:  you  frighten  me! '' 

"  And  you  torture  me.  Who  could  malign  one  brother 
to  the  other  ?  " 

"Oh!  it  was  all  meant  very  kindly,  —  there's  been 
such  a  nice,  dear,  good  gentleman  here,  and  he  cried 
when  he  saw  me,  and  said  he  knew  dear  mamma.  Well, 
and  he  has  promised  to  take   me  home  with  him  and 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  219 

give  me  a  pretty  pony,  —  as  pretty,  as  pretty  oh,  as 
pretty  as  it  can  be  got!  And  he  is  to  call  again  and 
tell  me  more:  I  think  he  is  a  fairy,  Philip." 

"Did  he  say  that  he  was  to  take  tne,  too,  Sidney?" 
said  Morton,  seating  himself,  and  looking  very  pale. 
At  that  question  Sidney  hung  his  head. 

"No,  brother,  —  he  says  you  won't  go,  and  that  you 
are  a  bad  boy ;  and  that  you  associate  with  wicked 
people;  and  that  you  want  to  keep  me  shut  up  here  and 
not  let  any  one  be  good  to  me.  But  I  told  him  I  did 
not  believe  that,  — yes,  indeed,  T  told  him  so." 

And  Sidney  endeavored  caressingly  to  withdraw  the 
hands  that  his  brother  placed  before  his  face. 

Morton  started  up,  and  walked  hastily  to  and  fro  the 
room.  "  This,"  thought  he,  "  is  another  emissary  of  the 
P>eauforts,  —  perhaps  the  lawyer;  they  will  take  him 
from  me,  —  the  last  thing  left  to  love  and  hope  for.  I 
will  foil  them.  —  Sidney,"  he  said  aloud;  "we  must 
go  lience  to-day,  this  very  hour,  —  nay,  instantly." 

"  What!  away  from  this  nice  good  gentleman?  " 

"  Curse  him!  yes,  away  from  him.  Do  not  cry:  it  is 
of  no  use,  —  you  viust  go." 

This  was  said  more  harshly  than  Philip  had  ever  yet 
spoken  to  Sidney;  and  when  he  had  said  it,  he  left  the 
room  to  settle  with  the  landlady,  and  to  pack  up  their 
scanty  effects.  In  another  hour  the  brothers  had 
turned  their  backs  on  the  town. 


220  NIGHT   AND   MOKKING. 


CHAPTEE  X. 

I  '11  carry  tliee 
In  Sorrow's  arms  to  welcome  Misery. 

Heywood's  Duchess  of  Suffolk. 

Who  's  here  besides  foul  weather  ?  —  Shakespeare  :  Lear. 

The  sun  was  as  bright  and  the  sky  as  calm  during  this 
journey  of  the  orphans  as  the  last.  They  avoided,  as 
hefore,  the  main  roads,  and  their  way  lay  through  land- 
scapes that  might  have  charmed  a  Gainsborough's  eye. 
Autumn  scattered  its  last  hues  of  gold  over  the  various 
foliage,  and  the  poppy  glowed  from  the  hedges,  and  the 
wild  convolvuluses  liere  and  there  still  gleamed  on  the 
wayside  with  a  parting  smile. 

At  times,  over  the  sloping  stubbles,  broke  the  sound 
of  the  sportman's  gun ;  and,  ever  and  anon,  by  stream 
and  sedge,  they  startled  tlie  shy  wildfowl,  just  come 
from  the  far  lands,  nor  yet  settled  in  the  new  haunts 
too  soon  to  be  invaded. 

But  there  was  no  longer  in  the  travellers  the  same 
liearts  that  had  made  light  of  hardsliip  and  fatigue. 
Sichiey  was  no  longer  flying  from  a  harsh  master,  and 
his  step  was  not  elastic  with  the  energy  of  fear  that  looked 
behind,  and  of  liojjc  that  smiled  before.  He  was  going 
a  toilsome,  weary  journey,  he  knew  not  why  nor  whither; 
just,  too,  when  he  had  made  a  friend,  whose  soothing 
Avord.s  haunted  his  childisli  fancy.  He  was  displeased 
witli  Philip,  and  in  sullen  and  silent  thoughtfulness 
slowly   plodded    behind   liiui;    and    Morton  himself  wag 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  221 

gloomy,   and    knew  not   where  in  the  world   to  seek  a 
future. 

They  arrived  at  dusk  at  a  small  inn,  not  so  far  distant 
from  the  town  they  had  left  as  Morton  could  have  wished ; 
but  the  days  were  shorter  than  in  their  first  flight. 

They  were  shown  into  a  small,  sanded  parlor,  which 
Sidney  eyed  with  great  disgust;  nor  did  he  seem  more 
pleased  with  the  hacked  and  jagged  leg  of  cold  mutton, 
which  was  all  that  the  hostess  set  before  them  for  supper. 
Philip  in  vain  endeavored  to  cheer  him  up,  and  ate  to  set 
him  the  example.  He  felt  relieved  when,  under  the 
auspices  of  a  good-looking,  good-natured  chambermaid, 
Sidney  retired  to  rest,  and  he  was  left  in  the  parlor  to  his 
own  meditations.  Hitherto  it  had  been  a  happy  thing 
for  Morton  that  he  had  had  some  one  dependent  on  him ; 
that  feeling  had  given  him  perseverance,  patience,  forti- 
tude, and  hope.  But  now,  dispirited  and  sad,  he  felt 
rather  the  horror  of  being  responsible  for  a  human  life, 
Avithout  seeing  the  means  to  discharge  the  trust.  It  was 
clear,  even  to  his  experience,  that  he  was  not  likely  to 
find  another  employer  as  facile  as  Mr.  Stubmore;  and, 
wherever  he  went,  he  felt  as  if  his  destiny  stalked  at  his 
back.  He  took  out  his  little  fortune  and  spread  it  on 
the  table,  counting  it  over  and  over;  it  had  remained 
pretty  stationary  since  his  service  with  Mr.  Stubmore, 
for  Sidney  had  swallowed  up  the  wages  of  his  hire. 
While  thus  employed  the  door  opened,  and  the  chamber- 
maid, showing  in  a  gentleman,  said,  "  We  have  no  other 
room,  sir." 

"  Very  well,  then,  —  I'm  not  particular ;  a  tumbler  of 
braundy-and-water,  stiffish, —  cold  without, —  the  news- 
paper,  and  a  cigar.    You  '11  excuse  smoking,  sir  1  " 

Philip  looked  up  from  his  hoard,  and  Captain  de  Burgh 
Smith  stood  before  him. 


2l'2  NIGHT   AND   MOKNIXG. 

"All!"  said  the  latter,  "well  met!"  And,  closing 
the  door,  he  took  off  his  greatcoat,  seated  himself  near 
Philip,  and  bent  both  his  eyes  with  considerable  wistful- 
ness  on  the  neat  rows  into  Avhich  Philip's  banknotes, 
sovereigns,  and  shillings  were  arrayed. 

"  Pretty  little  sum  for  pocket-money ;  cansh  in  hand 
goes  a  great  way,  properly  invested.  You  must  have 
been  very  lucky.  Well,  so  I  suppose  you  are  surprised 
to  see  me  here  without  my  phe-«ton  ?  " 

"  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  you  at  all, "  replied  Philip, 
tmcourteously,  and  restoring  his  money  to  his  pocket; 
"  your  fraud  upon  Mr.  Stubmore,  and  your  assurance  that 
you  knew  me,  have  set  me  adrift  upon  the  Avorld." 

"  What 's  one  man's  meat  is  another  man's  poison, " 
said  the  captain,  philosophically;  "  no  use  fretting, —  care 
killed  a  cat.  I  am  as  badly  off  as  you ;  for,  hang  me,  if 
there  was  not  a  Bow  Street  runner  in  the  town.  I  caught 
his  eye  fixed  on  me  like  a  gimlet ;  so  I  bolted,  went  to 

N ,  left  my  phe-aton  and  groom  there  for  the  present, 

and  have  doubled  back  to  bauffle  pursuit,  and  cut  across 
the  country.  You  recollect  that  noice  girl  we  saw  in  the 
coach ;  '  gad,  I  served  her  spouse  that  is  to  be  a  praetty 
trick !  Borrowed  his  money  under  pretence  of  investing 
it  in  the  New  Grand  Anti-Dry -Rot  Company, —  cool 
hundred ;  it 's  only  just  gone,  sir. " 

Here  the  chambermaid  entered  with  the  brandy-and- 
water,  the  newspaper,  and  cigar;  the  captain  lighted  the 
last,  took  a  deep  sup  from  the  beverage,  and  said,  gayly, — 

"  Well,  now,  let  us  join  fortunes ;  we  are  both,  as  you 
say,  'adrift.'  Best  way  to  staund  the  breeze  is  to  unite 
the  caubles." 

Philip  shook  his  head,  and,  displeased  with  his  com- 
panion, sought  his  pillow.  He  took  care  to  put  his 
money  under  his  head,   and  to  lock  his  door. 


NIGHT    AND   MORNING.  22 


Q 


The  brothers  started  at  daybreak;  Sidney  was  even 
naore  discontented  than  on  the  i')revious  day.  The 
weather  was  hot  and  oppressive ;  they  rested  for  some 
hours  at  noon,  and  in  the  cool  of  the  evenmg  renewed 
their  way.  Philip  had  made  up  his  mind  to  steer  for  a 
town  in  the  thick  of  a  hunting  district,  where  he  hoped 
his  equestrian  capacities  miglit  again  befriend  him ;  and 
their  path  now  lay  tlirough  a  chain  of  vast  dreary  com- 
mons, which  gave  them  at  least  the  advantage  to  skirt 
the  roadside  unobserved.  But,  somehow  or  other,  either 
Philip  had  been  misinformed  as  to  an  inn  where  he  had 
proposed  to  pass  the  night,  or  he  had  missed  it;  for  the 
clouds  darkened,  and  the  sun  went  down,  and  no  vestige 
of  human  liabitation  was  discernible.  Sidney,  foot-sore 
and  querulous,  began  to  weep,  and  declare  that  he  could 
stir  no  further;  and  while  Philip,  whose  iron  frame 
defied  fatigue,  compassionately  paused  to  rest  las 
lirother,  a  low  roll  of  thimder  broke  upon  the  gloomy  air. 
"  There  will  be  a  storm, "  said  he,  anxiously.  "  Come  on, 
—  pray,  Sidney,  come  on. " 

"  It  is  so  cruel  in  you,  brother  Philip,"  replied  Sidney, 
sobbing.     "  I  wish  I  had  never,  never  gone  with  you, " 

A  flash  of  lightning,  that  illuminated  the  whole 
heavens,  Imgered  round  Sidney's  pale  face  as  he  spoke ; 
and  Philip  threw  himself  instinctively  on  the  child,  as 
if  to  protect  him  even  from  the  wrath  of  the  unshelter- 
able  flame.  Sidney,  hushed  and  terrified,  clung  to  his 
brother's  breast;  after  a  pause,  he  silently  consented 
to  resume  their  journey.  But  now  the  storm  came  near 
and  nearer  to  the  wanderers.  The  darkness  grew  rapidly 
more  intense,  save  when  the  lightning  lit  up  heaven  and 
earth  alike  with  intolerable  lustre.  And  when  at  length 
the  rain  began  to  fall  in  merciless  and  drenching  torrents, 
even  Philip's  brave  heart  failed  him.     How  could  he 


224  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

ask  Sidney  to  proceed,  wlieii  they  could  scarcely  see  an 
inch  before  them  1  —  all  that  could  now  be  done  was  to 
gain  the  highroad,  and  hope  for  some  passing  convey- 
ance. Witli  fits  and  starts,  and  by  the  glare  of  the 
lightning,  they  attamed  their  object;  and  stood  at  last 
on  the  great  broad  thoroughfare,  along  which,  since  the 
day  when  the  Roman  carved  it  from  the  waste,  misery 
hath  plodded,  and  luxury  rolled,  their  common  way. 

Philip  had  stripped  handkerchief,  coat,  vest,  all  to 
shelter  Sidney;  and  he  felt  a  kind  of  strange  pleasure 
through  the  dark  even  to  hear  Sidney's  voice  wail  and 
moan.  But  that  voice  grew  more  languid  and  faint; 
it  ceased, —  Sidney's  weight  hung  heavy  —  heavier  on 
the  fostering  arm. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  speak!  —  speak,  Sidney  !  —  only 
one  word, —  I  will  carry  you  in  my  arms!  " 

"  I  think  I  am  dying, "  replied  Sidney,  in  a  low 
murmur ;  "  I  am  so  tired  and  worn  out,  I  can  go  no 
further, —  I  must  lie  here."  And  he  sank  at  once  upon 
the  reeking  grass  beside  the  road.  At  this  time  the 
rain  gradually  relaxed;  the  clouds  broke  away;  a  gray 
light  succeeded  to  the  darkness;  the  lightning  was 
more  distant;  and  the  thunder  rolled  onward  in  its 
awful  path.  Kneeling  on  the  ground,  Philip  supported 
his  brother  in  his  arms,  and  cast  his  pleading  eyes  up- 
ward to  tlie  softening  terrors  of  the  sky.  A  star  —  a 
solitary  star  —  broke  out  for  one  moment,  as  if  to  smile 
comfort  upon  him,  and  then  vanished.  But  lo!  in  the 
distance  there  suddenly  gleamed  a  red,  steady  light,  like 
tliat  in  some  solitary  whidow ;  it  was  no  will-o'-the-wisp, 
it  was  too  stationary,  —  human  shelter  was  then  nearer 
then  he  had  thought  for.  He  pointed  to  the  light,  and 
Avhispered,  "  Kouse  yourself,  one  struggle  more;  it  can- 
not be  far  oflf. " 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  225 

'•'  It  is  impossiljle,  —  I  cannot  stir, "  answered  Sidney ; 
and  a  sudden  flash  of  lightning  showed  liis  countenance, 
ghastly,  as  if  with  the  damjos  of  death.  What  could  the 
brother  do,  —  stay  there,  and  see  the  hoy  perish  before 
his  eyes ;  leave  him  on  the  road,  and  fly  to  the  friendly 
light  ?  The  last  plan  was  the  sole  one  left,  yet  he  shrank 
from  it  in  greater  terror  than  the  first.  Was  that  a 
step  that  he  heard  across  the  road  ?  He  held  his  breath 
to  listen;  a  form  became  dimly  visible;  it  approached. 

Philip  shouted  aloud. 

"  What  now  1  "  answered  the  voice,  and  it  seemed 
familiar  to  Morton's  ear.  He  sprang  forward;  and  put- 
ting his  face  close  to  the  wayfarer,  thought  to  recognize 
the  features  of  Captain  de  Burgh  Smith.  The  captain, 
whose  eyes  were  yet  more  accustomed  to  the  dark,  made 
the  first  overture. 

"  Why,  my  lad,  it  is  you  then !  'Gad,  you  f roigh- 
tened  me !  " 

Odious  as  this  man  had  hitherto  been  to  Philip,  he 
was  as  welcome  to  him  as  daylight  now;  he  grasped 
his  hand :  "  My  brother,  a  child,  is  here,  dying,  I  fear, 
Avith  cold  and  fatigue,  he  cannot  stir.  Will  you  stay 
with  him  —  support  him  —  but  for  a  few  moments,  while 
I  make  to  yon  light  ?  See,  I  have  money,  —  plenty  of 
money !  " 

"  My  good  lad,  it 's  very  ugly  work  staying  here  at 
this  hour :  still,  —  where  's  the  choild  1 " 

"  Here,  here !  make  haste,  raise  him !  that 's  right ! 
God  bless  you !  I  shall  be  back  ere  you  think  me  gone. " 

He  sprang  from  the  road,  and  plunged  through  the 
heath,  the  furze,  the  rank  glistening  i)ools,  straight  to- 
wards the  light,  as  the  swimmer  towards  the  shore. 

The  captain,  though  a  rogue,  was  human;  and  when 
life  —  an  innocent  life  — is  at  stake,  even  a  rogue's  heart 

VOL,  I.  — 15 


226  NIGHT   AXD    MOUNIXG. 

rises  up  from  its  weedy  bed.  He  muttered  a  few  oaths, 
it 'is  true,  but  lie  held  the  child  in  his  arms,  and,  taking 
out  a  little  tin  case,  poured  some  brandy  down  Sidney's 
throat,  and  then,  by  way  of  company,  down  his  own. 
The  cordial  revived  the  boy;  he  opened  his  eyes,  and 
said,  "  I  think  I  can  go  on,  now,  Philip. " 

We  must  return  to  Arthur  Beaufort.  He  was  natu- 
rally, though  gentle,  a  person  of  high  spirit,  and  not 
without  pride.  He  rose  from  the  ground  with  bitter, 
resentful  feelings,  and  a  blushing  cheek,  and  Avent  his 
way  to  the  hotel.  Here  he  found  Mr.  Spencer,  just 
returned  from  his  visit  to  Sidney.  Enchanted  with  the 
soft  and  endearing  manners  of  his  lost  Catherine's  son, 
and  deeply  affected  with  the  resemblance  the  child  bore 
to  the  mother,  as  he  had  seen  her  last  at  the  gay  and 
rosy  age  of  fair  sixteen,  his  description  of  the  younger 
brother  drew  Beaufort's  indignant  thoughts  from  the 
elder.  He  cordially  concurred  with  Mr.  Spencer  in  the 
wish  to  save  one  so  gentle  from  the  domination  of  one  so 
fierce;  and  this,  after  all,  was  the  child  Catherine  had 
most  strongly  commended  to  him.  She  had  said  little 
of  the  elder ;  perhaps  she  had  been  aware  of  his  imgra- 
cious  and  untractable  nature,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  Arthur 
Beaufort,  his  predilections  for  a  coarse  and  low  career. 

"  Yes, "  said  he,  "  this  boy,  then,  shall  console  me  for 
the  perverse  brutality  of  the  other.  He  shall,  indeed, 
drink  of  my  cup,  and  eat  of  my  bread,  and  be  to  me  as  a 
brother. " 

"What!"  said  Mr.  Spencer,  changing  countenance, 
"  you  do  not  intend  to  take  Sidney  to  live  with  you  ?  I 
meant  him  for  my  son,  —  my  adopted  son." 

"  No ;  generous  as  you  are, "  said  Arthur,  pressing  his 
hand,  "this  charge  devolves  on  me, —  it  is  my  right.     I 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  227 

am  the  orphan's  relation,  —  his  mother  consigned  him  to 
me.     But  he  shall  be  taught  to  love  you  not  the  less. " 

Mr.  Spencer  was  silent.  He  could  not  bear  the 
tliought  of  losing  Sidney  as  an  inmate  of  his  cheerless 
home,  a  tender  relic  of  his  early  love.  From  that  moment 
he  began  to  contemplate  the  possibility  of  securing  Sidney 
to  himself,  unknown  to  Beaufort. 

The  plans  both  of  Arthur  and  Spencer  were  interrupted 
by  the  sudden  retreat  of  the  brothers.  They  determmed 
to  depart  different  ways  in  search  of  them.  Spencer,  as 
the  more  helpless  of  the  two,  obtained  the  aid  of  Mr. 
Sharp;  Beaufort  departed  with  the  lawyer. 

Two  travellers,  in  a  hired  barouche,  were  slowly 
dragged  by  a  pair  of  jaded  posters  along  the  commons  I 
have  just  described. 

"  I  think, "  said  one,  "  that  the  storm  is  very  much 
abated ;  heigho !  what  an  unpleasant  night !  " 

"  Unkimmon  ugly,  sir, "  answered  the  other ;  "  and  an 
awful  long  stage,  eighteen  miles.  These  here  remote 
places  are  quite  behind  the  age,  sir, — quite.  However, 
I  think  we  shall  kitch  them  now." 

"  I  am  very  much  afraid  of  that  eldest  boy.  Sharp. 
He  seems  a  dreadful  vagabond." 

"  You  see,  sir,  quite  hand  in  glove  with  Dashing  Jerry ; 
met  in  the  same  inn  last  night,  —  preconcerted,  you  may 
be  quite  sure.  It  would  be  the  best  day's  job  I  have 
done  this  many  a  day  to  save  that  'ere  little  fellow  from 
being  corrupted.  You  sees  he  is  just  of  a  size  to  be  use- 
ful to  these  bad  karakters.  If  they  took  to  burglary,  he 
would  be  a  treasure  to  them, —  slip  him  through  a  pane 
of  glass  like  a  ferret,  sir. " 

"  Don't  talk  of  it,  Sharp, "  said  Mr.  Spencer,  with  a 
groan ;  "  and  recollect,  if  we  get  hold  of  him,  that  you 
are  not  to  say  a  word  to  Mr.  Beaufort." 


228  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"I  understand,  sir;  and  I  always  goes  with  the 
gemman  who  behaves  most  like  a  gemman." 

Here  a  loud  halloo  was  heard  close  by  the  horses' 
heads 

"  Good  heavens,  if  that  is  a  footpad !  "  said  Mr. 
Spencer,   shaking  violently. 

"Lord,  sir,  I  have  my  barkers  with  me.  Who's 
there  1  " 

The  barouche  stopped, —  a  man  came  to  the  window. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir, "  said  the  stranger ;  "  but  there  is  a 
poor  boy  here  so  tired  and  ill  that  I  fear  he  will  never 
reach  the  next  town,  unless  you  will  koindly  give  him  a 
lift." 

"  A  poor  boy !  "  said  Mr.  Spencer,  poking  his  head 
over  the  head  of  Mr.  Sharp.     "  A^^lere  1  " 

"  If  you  would  just  drop  him  at  the  King's  Awrms, 
it  would  be  a  chaurity, "  said  the  man. 

Sharp  pinched  Mr.  Spencer  on  the  shoulder.  "  That 's 
Dashing  Jerry ;  I  '11  get  out. "  So  saying,  he  opened 
the  door,  jumped  into  the  road,  and  presently  re-appeared 
with  the  lost  and  welcome  Sidney  in  his  arms.  "  Be  n't 
this  the  boy  ?  "  he  whispered  to  Mr.  Spencer ;  and, 
taking  the  lamp  from  the  carriage,  he  raised  it  to  the 
child's  face. 

"  It  is !  it  is !  God  be  thanked !  "  exclaimed  the 
worthy  man. 

"  Will  you  leave  him  at  the  King's  Awrms  1  —  we  shall 
be  there  in  an  hour  or  two,"  cried  the  captain. 

"  We  !     Who  's  we  ?  "  said  Sharp,  gruffly. 

"  Why,  myself  and  the  choild's  brother. " 

"  Oh !  "  said  Sharp,  raising  the  lantern  to  his  own 
face ;  "  you  knows  me,  I  think.  Master  Jerry  ?  Let  me 
kitch  you  agin,  that's  all.  And  give  my  compliments 
to   your   'sociate,    and   say,    if   he  prosecutes  this   here 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  229 

hurchin  any  more,  we  '11  settle  his  bizness  for  him ;  and 
so  take   a  hint   and  make  yourself  scarce,  old  boy !  " 

With  that  Mr.  Sharp  jumped  into  the  barouche,  and 
bade  the  postboy  drive  on  as  fast  as  he  could. 

Ten  minutes  after  this  abduction,  Philip,  followed  by 
two  laborers,  with  a  barrow,  a  lantern,  and  two  blankets, 
returned  from  the  hospitable  farm  to  which  the  light  had 
conducted  him.  The  spot  where  he  had  left  Sidney, 
and  which  he  knew  by  a  neighboring  milestone,  was 
vacant;  he  shouted  an  alarm,  and  the  captain  answered 
from  the  distance  of  some  threescore  yards.  Philip  came 
to  him.     "  Where  is  my  brother  1  " 

"  Gone  away  in  a  barouche  and  pair.  Devil  take  me  if 
I  understaund  it."  And  the  captain  proceeded  to  give  a 
♦"onfused  account  of  what  had  passed. 

"  My  brother !  my  brother !  they  have  torn  thee  from 
me,  then!  "  cried  Philip,  and  he  fell  to  the  earth 
insensible. 


230  NIGHT  AND   MORNING, 


CHAPTER   XI. 

Vous  me  rendrez  mon  frere  !  ^ — Cashier  Delavigxe  :  Les 
Enfans  d'Edouard. 

One  evening,  a  week  after  this  event,  a  wild,  tattered, 
haggard  youth  knocked  at  the  door  of  Mr.  Robert 
Beaufort. 

The  porter  slowly  presented  himself. 

"  Is  your  master  at  home  ?    I  must  see  him  instantly. " 

"  That 's  more  than  you  can ,  my  man ;  my  master  does 
not  see  the  like  of  you  this  time  of  night,"  replied  the 
porter,  eying  the  ragged  apparition  before  him  with 
great  disdain. 

"'  See  me  he  must  and  shall,"  replied  the  young  man; 
and,  as  the  porter  blocked  up  the  entrance,  he  grasped 
his  collar  with  a  hand  of  iron,  swung  him,  huge  as  he 
was,  aside,  and  strode  into  the  spacious  hall. 

"Stop!  stop!"  cried  the  porter,  recovering  himself. 
"  James !  John !  here  's  a  go !  " 

Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  had  been  back  in  town  several 
days.  Mrs.  Beaufort,  who  was  Avaiting  his  return  from 
his  club,  was  in  the  dining-room.  Hearing  a  noise  in 
the  hall,  she  opened  the  door,  and  saw  the  strange 
grim  figure  I  have  described  advancing  towards  her. 
"  Who  are  yon?  "  she  said;  "  what  do  you  want?  " 

"  I  am  Philip  Morton.     Who  are  you  1  " 

"  ^ly  husband,"  said  Mrs.  Beaufort  shrinking  into 
the  parlor,  while  Morton  followed  her,  and  closed  the 
door,  —  "  my  husband,  Mr.  Beaufort,  is  not  at  home." 

^  You  shall  restore  me  my  brother  ! 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  231 

"You  are  Mrs.  Beaufort,  then!  Well,  you  can  un- 
derstand me.  J  want  my  brother.  He  has  been  basely 
reft  from  me.  Tell  me  where  he  is,  and  T  will  forgive 
all.  Restore  him  to  me,  and  I  will  bless  you  and 
yours."  And  Philip  fell  on  his  knees  and  grasped  the 
train  of  her  gown. 

"I  know  nothing  of  your  brother,  Mr.  Morton," 
cried  Mrs.  Beaufort,  surprised  and  alarrped.  "  Arthur, 
whom  we  expect  every  day,  writes  us  word  that  all 
search  for  him  has  been  in  vain." 

"Ha!  you  admit  the  search?"  cried  Morton,  rising 
and  clenching  his  hands.  "  And  who  else  but  j^ou  or 
yours  would  have  parted  brother  and  brother?  An- 
swer me  where  he  is.  iS^o  subterfuge,  madam:  1  am 
desperate !  " 

Mrs.  Beaufort,  though  a  woman  of  that  worldly  cold- 
ness and  indifference  which,  on  ordinary  occasions, 
supply  the  place  of  courage,  was  extremely  terrified  by 
the  tone  and  mien  of  her  rude  guest.  She  laid  her  hand 
on  the  bell;  but  Morton  seized  her  arm,  and,  holding  it 
sternly,  said,  while  his  dark  eyes  shot  fire  through  the 
glimmering  room,  "  I  will  not  stir  hence  till  you  have 
told  me.  Will  you  reject  my  gratitude,  my  blessing? 
Beware!     Again,  where  have  you  hid  my  brother?  " 

At  that  instant  the  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Kobert  Beau- 
fort entered.  The  lady,  with  a  shriek  of  joy,  wrenched 
herself  from  Philip's  grasp,  and  flew  to  her  husband. 

"  Save  me  from  this  ruffian!  "  she  said,  with  an  hyster- 
ical sob. 

Mr.  Beaufort,  who  had  heard  from  Blackwell  strange 
accounts  of  Philip's  obdurate  perverseness,  vile  asso- 
ciates, and  unredeemable  cliaracter,  Avas  roused  from  his 
usual  timidity  by  the  appeal  of  his  wife. 

"Insolent  reprobate!  "  he  said,  advancing  to  Philip; 


232  NIGHT   AND    MOUNING. 

"after  all  the  absurd  goodness  of  my  son  and  myself; 
after  rejecting  all  our  offers,  and  persisting  in  your 
miserable  and  vicious  conduct,  —  how  dare  you  presume 
to  force  yourself  into  this  house?  Begone,  or  I  will 
send  for  the  constables  to  remove  you !  " 

"Man,  man,"  cried  Philip,  restraining  the  fury  that 
shook  him  from  liead  to  foot,  "  I  care  not  for  your 
threats,  —  I  scarcely  hear  your  abuse  ;  your  son,  or  your- 
self, has  stolen  away  ray  brother.  Tell  me  only  where 
he  is;  let  me  see  him  once  more.  Do  not  drive  me 
hence  without  one  word  of  justice,  of  pity.  I  implore 
you,  on  my  knees  I  implore  you,  —  yes,  I,  /  implore 
you,  Robert  Beaufort,  to  have  mercy  on  your  brother's 
son.     Where  is  Sidney  1  " 

Like  all  mean  and  cowardly  men,  Eobert  Beaufort 
■was  rather  encouraged  than  softened  by  Philip's  abrupt 
humility. 

"I  know  nothing  of  your  brother;  and  if  this  is  not 
all  some  villanous  trick, — which  it  may  be, — I  am 
heartily  rejoiced  that  he,  poor  child!  is  rescued  from 
the  contamination  of  such  a  companion,"  answered 
Beaufort. 

"I  am  at  your  feet  still;  again,  for  the  last  time, 
clinging  to  you  a  suppliant:  I  pray  you  to  tell  me  the 
truth. " 

Mr.  Beaufort,  more  and  more  exasperated  by  Morton's 
forbearance,  raised  his  hand  as  if  to  strike;  when,  at 
that  moment,  one  hitherto  unobserved  —  one  who,  terri- 
fied by  the  scene  she  had  witnessed  but  could  not  compre- 
hend, had  slunk  into  a  dark  corner  of  the  room  —  now 
came  from  her  retreat:  and  a  child's  soft  voice  was 
heard,  saying  — 

"Do  not  strike  him,  papa!  —  let  him  have  his 
brother!  " 


NIGHT    AND    MOKNING.  233 

Mr.  Beaufort's  arm  fell  to  his  side:  kneeling  before 
liim,  and  by  the  ontcast's  side,  was  his  own  young 
daughter;  she  had  crept  into  the  room  unobserved, 
Avhen  her  father  entered.  Through  the  dim  shadows, 
relieved  only  by  the  red  and  fitful  gleam  of  the  fire,  he 
saw  her  fair  meek  face  looking  up  wistfully  at  his  own, 
Avith  tears  of  excitement,  and  perhaps  of  pity,  —  for 
children  have  a  quick  insight  into  the  reality  of  grief 
in  those  not  far  removed  from  their  own  years,  —  glis- 
tening in  her  soft  eyes.  Philip  looked  round  bewil- 
dered, and  he  saw  that  face  which  seemed  to  him,  at 
such  a  time,  like  the  face  of  an  angel. 

"  Hear  her!  "  he  murmured:  "oh,  hear  her!  For  her 
sake,  do  not  sever  one  orphan  from  the  other!  " 

"  Take  away  tliat  child,  Mrs.  Beaufort,"  cried  Robert, 
angrily,  "Will  you  let  her  disgrace  herself  thus? 
And  you,  sir,  begone  from  this  roof;  and  when  you 
can  approach  me  with  due  respect,  I  will  give  you,  as 
I  said  I  would,  the  means  to  get  an  honest  living!  " 

Philip  rose;  Mrs.  Beaufort  had  already  led  away  her 
daughter,  and  she  took  that  opportunity  of  sending  in 
the  servants :  their  forms  filled  up  the  doorway. 

"Will  you  go?"  continued  Mr.  Beaufort,  more  and 
more  emboldened,  as  he  saw  the  menials  at  hand,  "  or 
shall  they  expel  you  ?  " 

"  It  is  enough,  sir,"  said  Philip,  Avith  a  sudden  calm 
and  dignity  that  surprised,  and  almost  awed  his  micle. 
"My  father,  if  the  dead  yet  watch  over  the  living,  has 
seen  and  heard  you.  There  will  come  a  day  for  justice. 
Out  of  my  path,  hirelings!  " 

He  waved  his  arm,  and  the  menials  shrank  back  at 
his  tread,  stalked  across  the  inhospitable  hall,  and 
vanished. 

When  he  had  gained  the  street,  he  turned  and  looked 


234  NIGHT    AND    MOIINING. 

np  at  the  house.  His  dark  and  hollow  eyes,  gleaming 
through  the  long  and  raven  hair  that  fell  profusely  over 
his  face,  had  in  them  an  expression  of  menace  almost 
preternatural,  from  its  settled  calmness;  the  wild  and 
untutored  majesty  which,  through  rags  and  squalor, 
never  deserted  his  form,  as  it  never  does  the  forms  of 
men  in  whom  the  will  is  strong  and  the  sense  of  in- 
justice deep;  the  outstretched  arm;  the  haggard,  hut 
noble  features;  the  bloomless  and  scathed  youth,  —  all 
gave  to  his  features  and  his  stature  an  aspect  awful  x.i 
its  sinister  and  voiceless  wrath.  There  he  stood  a 
moment,  like  one  to  whom  woe  and  wrong  have  given 
a  prophet's  power,  guiding  the  eye  of  the  unforgetful 
fate  to  the  roof  of  the  oppressor.  Then,  slowly,  and 
with  a  half  smile,  he  turned  away,  and  strode  through 
the  streets  till  he  arrived  at  one  of  the  narrow  lanes  that 
intersect  the  more  equivocal  quarters  of  the  huge  city. 
He  stopped  at  the  private  entrance  of  a  small  pawn- 
broker's shop ;  the  door  was  opened  by  a  slipshod  boy ; 
he  ascended  the  dingy  stairs  till  he  came  to  the  second 
floor;  and  there,  in  a  small  back  room,  he  found  Cap- 
tain de  Burgh  Smith,  seated  before  a  taljle  with  a  couple 
of  candles  on  it,  smoking  a  cigar,  and  playing  at  cards 
by  himself. 

"  Well,  what  news  of  your  brother.  Bully  Phil?  " 

"None:  they  will  rcA'eal  nothing." 

"  Do  you  give  him  up  ?  " 

"  Never !     IMy  hope  now  is  in  you.  " 

"  Well,  I  thought  you  would  be  driven  to  come  to  me, 
and  I  will  do  something  for  you  that  I  should  not  loike 
to  do  for  myself.  I  told  you  that  I  knew  the  Bow  Street 
runner  who  was  in  the  barouche.  I  will  find  him  out, 
—  Heaven  knows  that  is  easily  done;  and,  if  you  can 
pay  well,  you  will  get  your  news." 


KIGIIT   AND   MORNING.  235 

"You  shall  have  all  I  possess,  if  you  restore  my 
brother.  See  what  it  is,  one  liundred  pounds,  —  it  \va3 
his  fortune.  It  is  useless  to  me  without  him.  There, 
take  fifty  now,  and  if —  " 

Philip  stopped,  for  his  voice  trembled  too  much  to 
allow  him  farther  speech.  Captain  Smith  thrust  the 
notes  into  his  pocket,  and  said, — 

"We'll  consider  it  settled." 

Captain  Smith  fulfilled  his  promise.  He  saw  the 
Bow  Street  officer.  Mr.  Sharp  had  been  bribed  too 
high  by  the  opposite  party  to  tell  tales,  and  he  willingly 
encouraged  the  suspicion  that  Sidney  was  under  the 
care  of  the  Beauforts.  He  promiseil,  however,  for  the 
sake  of  ten  guineas,  to  procure  Philip  a  letter  from 
Sidney  himself.      This  was  all  he  would  undertake. 

Philip  was  satisfied.  At  the  end  of  another  week 
Mr.  Sharp  transmitted  to  the  captain  a  letter,  which  he, 
in  his  turn,  gave  to  Philip.  It  ran  thus,  in  Sidney's 
own  sprawling  hand  :  — 

Dear  Brother  Philip,  —  I  am  told  you  wish  to  know  how 
I  am,  and  therefore  take  up  my  pen,  and  asure  you  that  I 
tvrite  all  out  of  my  own  head.  I  am  very  Comfortable  and 
happy,  —  much  more  so  than  I  have  been  since  poor  deir 
mama  died  ;  so  I  beg  you  won't  vex  yourself  about  me  :  and 
pray  don't  try  and  Find  me  out,  For  I  would  not  go  with  you 
again  for  the  world.  I  am  so  much  better  Off  here.  I  wish 
you  would  be  a  good  boy,  and  leave  off  your  Bad  way.^ ;  for  I 
am  .sure,  as  every  one  says,  I  don't  know  what  would  have 

bec(jme  of  me  if  I  had  stayed  with  you.     Mr. [the  Mr. 

half  scratched  out],  the  gentleman  I  am  with,  says  if  you  turn 
out  Properly,  he  will  be  a  friend  to  you,  Too  ;  but  he  advises 
you  to  go,  like  a  Good  boy,  to  Arthur  Beaufort,  and  ask  his 
pardon  for  the  past,  and  then  Arthur  will  be  very  kind  to  you. 
I  send  you  a  great  Big  sum  of  ^20,  and  the  gentleman  says  he 
would  send  more,  only  it  might  make  you  naughty,  and  set 


236  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

up.  I  go  to  churcli  now  every  Sunday,  and  read  good  books, 
and  always  pray  that  God  may  open  your  eyes.  I  have  such 
a  Nice  pony,  with  such  a  long  tale.  So  no  more  at  present 
from  your  affectionate  brother. 

Sidney  Morton. 
Oct.  8,  18—. 

Pray,  pray  don't  come  after  me  Any  more.  You  know  I 
neerly  died  of  it,  but  lor  this  deir  good  gentleman  I  am  with. 

So  this,  then,  was  the  crowning  reward  of  all  his  suffer- 
ings and  all  his  love.  There  was  the  letter,  evidently 
undictated,  with  its  errors  of  orthography,  and  in  the 
child's  rough  scrawl ;  the  serpent's  tooth  pierced  to  the 
heart,  and  left  there  its  most  lasting  venom. 

"I  have  done  with  him  forever,"  said  Philip,  brush- 
ing away  the  bitter  tears.  "  I  will  molest  him  no  fur- 
ther; 1  care  no  more  to  pierce  this  mystery.  Better 
for  him  as  it  is,  —  he  is  happy !  Well,  well,  and  I  —  / 
will  never  care  for  a  human  being  again." 

He  bowed  his  head  over  his  hands;  and  when  he 
rose,  his  heart  felt  to  him  like  stone.  It  seemed  as  if 
Conscience  herself  had  fled  from  his  soul  on  the  wings 
of  departed  Love. 


NIGHT  AND   MOKNING.  237 


CHAPTER  XII. 

But  you  have  found  the  mountain's  top,  —  there  sit 
On  the  cahn  flourishing  head  of  it; 
And  whilst  with  wearied  steps  we  upward  go, 
See  Us  and  Clouds  below. 

Cowley. 

It  was  true  that  Sitlney  was  happy  in  his  new  home, 
and  thither  we  must  now  trace  him. 

On  reaching  the  town  where  the  travellers  in  the 
harouche  had  been  requested  to  leave  Sidney,  "The 
King's  Arms  "  was  precisely  the  inn  eschewed  by  Mr. 
Spencer.  While  the  horses  were  being  changed,  he 
summoned  the  surgeon  of  the  town  to  examine  the  child, 
who  had  already  much  recovered;  and,  by  stripping  his 
clothes,  wrapping  him  in  warm  blankets,  and  adminis- 
tering cordials,  he  was  permitted  to  reach  another  stage, 
so  as  to  baffle  pursuit  that  night;  and  in  three  days  Mr. 
Spencer  had  placed  his  new  charge  with  his  maiden  sis- 
ters, a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  from  the  spot  where  he 
had  been  found.  He  would  not  take  him  to  his  own 
home  yet.  He  feared  the  claims  of  Arthur  Beaufort. 
He  artfully  wrote  to  that  gentleman,  stating  that  he  had 
abandoned  the  chase  of  Sidney  in  despair,  and  desiring 
to  know  if  he  had  discovered  him;  and  a  bribe  of  £300 
to  Mr.  Sharp,  with  a  candid  exposition  of  his  reasons 
for  secreting  Sidney,  —  reasons  in  which  the  worthy 
officer  professed  to  sympathize,  —  secured  the  discretion 
of  his  ally.  But  he  would  not  deny  himself  the  pleasure 
of  being  in  the  same  house  with  Sidney,  and  was  there- 
fore for  some  months  the  guest  of  his  sisters.     At  length 


238  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

he  heard  that  young  "Beaufort  had  heen  ordered  abroad 
for  his  health,  and  he  then  deemed  it  safe  to  transfer 
his  new  idol  to  his  Lares  by  the  lakes.  During  this 
interval,  the  current  of  the  younger  Morton's  life  had 
indeed  flowed  through  flowers.  At  his  age  the  cares  of 
females  were  almost  a  want  as  well  as  a  luxury,  and  the 
sisters  spoiled  and  petted  him  as  much  as  any  elderly 
nymphs  in  Cytherea  ever  petted  Cupid.  They  were 
good,  excellent,  high-nosed,  fiat-bosomed  spinsters,  sen- 
timentally fond  of  their  brother,  whom  they  called  "  the 
poet,"  and  dotingly  attached  to  children.  The  clean- 
ness, the  quiet,  the  good  cheer  of  their  neat  abode,  all 
tended  to  revive  and  invigorate  the  spirits  of  their 
young  guest,  and  every  one  there  seemed  to  vie  which 
should  love  him  the  most.  Still,  his  especial  favorite 
was  Mr.  Spencer :  for  Spencer  never  went  out  without 
bringing  back  cakes  and  toys ;  and  Spencer  gave  him  his 
pony ;  and  Spencer  rode  a  little  crop-eared  nag  by  his 
side;  and  Spencer,  in  short,  was  associated  with  his 
every  comfort  and  caprice.  He  told  them  his  little 
history;  and  when  he  said  how  Philip  had  left  hira 
alone  for  long  hours  together,  and  how  Philip  had  forced 
him  to  his  last  and  nearly  fatal  journey,  the  old  maids 
groaned,  and  the  old  bachelor  sighed,  and  they  all  cried 
in  a  breath,  that  "Philip  was  a  very  wicked  boy."  It 
was  not  only  their  obvious  policA'^  to  detach  him  from 
his  brother,  but  it  was  their  sincere  conviction  that 
they  did  right  to  do  so.  Sidney  began,  it  is  true,  by 
taking  Philip's  part;  but  his  mind  was  ductile,  and 
he  still  looked  back  with  a  shudder  to  the  hardships  he 
had  gone  through.  And  so,  by  little  and  little,  he 
learned  to  forget  all  the  endearing  and  fostering  love 
Philip  had  evinced  to  him;  to  connect  his  name  with 
dark   and  mysterious  fears;  to  repeat  thanksgivings  to 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  239 

Providence  that  lie  was  saved  from  him ;  and  to  hope 
that  they  might  never  meet  again.  In  fact,  when  Mr. 
Spencer  learned  from  Sharp  that  it  was  through  Captain 
Smith,  the  swindler,  that  application  had  been  made  by 
Philip  for  news  of  his  brother,  and  having  also  learned 
before,  from  the  same  person,  that  Philip  had  been  im- 
plicated in  the  sale  of  a  horse,  swindled,  if  not  stolen, 
—  he  saw  every  additional  reason  to  widen  the  stream 
that  flowed  between  the  wolf  and  the  lamb.  The  older 
Sidney  grew,  the  better  he  comprehended  and  appreci- 
ated tlie  motives  of  his  protector,  —  for  he  was  brought 
up  in  a  formal  school  of  propriety  and  ethics,  and  his 
mind  naturally  revolted  from  all  images  of  violence  or 
fraud.  Mr.  Spencer  changed  both  the  Chri&tian  and  the 
surname  of  his  lyrotege^  in  order  to  elude  the  search, 
whether  of  Philip,  the  Mortons,  or  the  Beauforts,  and 
Sidney  passed  for  his  nephew  by  a  younger  brother  who 
had  died  in  India. 

So  there,  by  the  calm  banks  of  the  placid  lake, 
amidst  the  fairest  landscapes  of  the  Island  Garden,  the 
youngest  born  of  Catherine  passed  his  tranquil  daj^s. 
The  monotony  of  the  retreat  did  not  fatigue  a  spirit 
which,  as  he  grew  up,  found  occupation  in  books,  music, 
poetry,  and  the  elegances  of  the  cultivated,  if  quiet  life, 
within  his  reach.  To  the  rough  past  he  looked  back  as 
to  an  evil  dream,  in  which  the  image  of  Philip  stood 
dark  and  threatening.  His  brother's  name,  as  he  grew 
older,  he  rarely  mentioned ;  and  if  he  did  volunteer  it  to 
]Mr.  Spencer,  the  bloom  on  his  cheek  grew  paler.  The 
sweetness  of  his  manners,  his  fair  face  and  winning 
smile,  still  continued  to  secure  him  love,  and  to  screen 
from  the  common  eye  whatever  of  selfishness  yet  lurked 
in  his  nature.  And,  indeed,  that  fault,  in  so  serene  a 
career,  and  with  friends  so  attached,  was  seldom  called 


240  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

into  action.  So  thus  was  he  severed  from  both  the  pro- 
tectors, Arthur  and  Philip,  to  whom  poor  Catherine  had 
bequeathed  him. 

By  a  perverse  and  strange  mystery,  they,  to  whom 
the  charge  was  most  intrusted,  were  the  very  persons 
who  were  forbidden  to  redeem  it.  On  our  deathbeds, 
wlien  we  think  we  have  provided  for  those  we  leave 
behind, — should  we  lose  the  last  smile  that  gilds  the 
solemn  agony,  if  we  could  look  one  year  into  the  future? 

Artiiur  Beaufort,  after  an  ineffectual  search  for  Sid- 
ney, heard,  on  returning  to  his  home,  no  unexaggerated 
narrative  of  Philip's  visit,  and  listened,  with  deep 
resentment,  to  his  mother's  distorted  account  of  the  lan- 
guage addressed  to  her.  It  is  not  surprising  that,  with 
all  his  romantic  generosity,  he  felt  sickened  and  re- 
volted at  violence  that  seemed  to  him  without  excuse. 
Though  not  a  revengeful  character,  he  had  not  that 
meekness  which  never  resents.  He  looked  upon  Philip 
Morton  as  upon  one  rendered  incorrigible  by  bad  pas- 
sions and  evil  company.  Still,  Catherine's  last  bequest, 
and  Philip's  note  to  him,  the  Unknown  Comforter, 
often  recurred  to  him,  and  he  Avould  have  willingly  yet 
aided  had  Philip  been  thrown  in  his  way.  But  as  it 
was,  when  he  looked  around,  and  saw  the  examples  of 
that  charity  that  begins  at  home,  in  which  the  world 
abounds,  he  felt  as  if  he  had  done  liis  duty;  and  pros- 
perity having,  though  it  could  not  harden  his  heart, 
still  sapped  the  habits  of  perseverance,  .so  by  little  and 
little  the  image  of  the  dying  Catherine,  and  the  thought 
of  her  sons,  faded  from  his  remembrance.  And  for  this 
there  was  the  more  excuse  after  the  receipt  of  an  anony- 
mous letter,  which  relieved  all  his  apprehensions  on 
beljalf  of  Sidney.  The  letter  was  short,  and  stated 
simply    that    Sidney    Morton    had  found  a  friend  who 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  241 

would  protect  him  throughout  life,  but  who  would  not 
scruple  to  apply  to  Beaufort  if  ever  he  needed  his  assist- 
ance. So  one  son,  and  that  the  youngest  and  the  best- 
loved,  was  safe.  And  the  other,  —  had  he  not  chosen 
his  own  career ?  Alas,  poor  Catherine!  when  you  fan- 
cied that  Philip  was  the  one  sure  to  force  his  way  into 
fortune,  and  Sidney  the  one  most  helpless,  how  ill  did 
you  judge  of  the  human  heart!  It  was  that  very 
strength  in  Philip's  nature  which  tempted  the  winds 
that  scattered  the  blossoms,  and  shook  the  stem  to  its 
roots;  while  the  lighter  and  frailer  nature  bent  to  tlie 
gale,  and  bore  transplanting  to  a  happier  soil.  If  a 
parent  read  these  pages,  let  him  pause  and  think  well 
on  the  characters  of  his  children ;  let  him  at  once  fear 
and  hope  the  most  for  the  one  whose  passions  and  whose 
temper  lead  to  a  struggle  with  the  world.  That  same 
world  is  a  tough  wrestler,  and  has  a  bear's  gripe  for  the 
poor. 

Meanwhile  Arthur  Beaufort's  own  complaints,  which 
grew  serious  and  menaced  consumption,  recalled  his 
thoughts  more  and  more  every  day  to  himself.  He  was 
compelled  to  abandon  his  career  at  the  university,  and 
to  seek  for  health  in  the  softer  breezes  of  the  South. 
His  parents  accompanied  him  to  Nice;  and  when,  at 
the  end  of  a  few  months,  he  was  restored  to  health,  the 
desire  of  travel  seized  the  mind  and  attracted  the  fancy 
of  the  young  heir.  His  father  and  mother,  satisfied 
with  his  recovery,  and  not  unwilling  that  he  should 
acquire  the  polish  of  Continental  intercourse,  returned 
to  England ;  and  young  Beaufort,  with  gay  companions 
and  munificent  income,  already  courted,  spoiled,  and 
flattered,  commenced  his  tour  with  the  fair  climes  of 
Italy. 

So,  0  dark  mystery  of  the  Moral  World!  so,  unlike 

VOL.  I. — 16 


242  KIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

the  order  of  the  external  universe,  glide  together,  side 
by  side,  the  shadowy  steeds  of  Night  and  Morning. 
Examine  life  in  its  own  world;  confound  not  that 
world,  the  inner  one,  the  practical  one,  with  the  more 
visible,  yet  airier  and  less  substantial  system,  doing 
homage  to  the  sun,  to  whose  throne,  afar  in  the  infinite 
space,  the  human  heart  has  no  wings  to  flee.  In  life, 
the  mind  and  the  circumstance  give  the  true  seasons, 
and  regulate  the  darkness  and  the  light.  Of  two  men 
standing  on  the  same  foot  of  earth,  the  one  revels  in 
the  joyous  noon,  the  other  shudders  in  the  solitude  of 
night.  For  hope  and  fortune  the  day-star  is  ever  shin- 
ing. For  care  and  penury,  Kight  changes  not  with  the 
ticking  of  the  clock,  nor  with  the  shadow  on  the  dial. 
Morning  for  the  heir,  night  for  the  houseless,  and  God's 
eye  over  both! 


BOOK   III. 

Serge  lagen  mir  im  iiyege : 

©trome  l)emmten  meinen  i^u% : 
Ueber  gd^lunbe  baut'  xdi  Stege, 
iiJriiden  bur^  ben  loitben  giuB- 

Schiller  :  Der  Pilarim, 


BOOK   III. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  knight  of  arts  and  industry, 
And  his  achievements  fair. 
Thomson's  Castle  of  Indolence :  explanatory  verse  to  Canto  IL 

In  a  popular  and  respectable,  but  not  very  fashionable 
quartier    in     Paris,    and    in    the    tolerably    broad    and 

effective  locale  of  the  Rue ,  there  might   be  seen, 

at  the  time  I  now  treat  of,  a  curious-looking  building, 
that  jutted  out  semicircular ly  from  the  neighboring  shops, 
with  plaster  pilasters  and  compo  ornaments.  The  vir- 
tuosi of  the  quartier  had  discovered  that  the  building  was 
constructed  in  imitation  of  an  ancient  temple  in  Rome ; 
this  erection,  then  fresh  and  new,  reached  only  to  the 
entresol.  The  pilasters  were  painted  light  green  and 
gilded  in  the  cornices,  while,  surmounting  the  architrave, 
were  three  little  statues,  —  one  held  a  torch,  another  a 
bow,  and  a  third  a  bag ;  they  were  therefore  rumored,  I 
know  not  with  what  justice,  to  be  the  artistical  repre- 
sentatives of  Hymen,    Cupid,   and  Fortune. 

On  the  door  was  neatly  engraved,  on  a  brass-plate,  the 
following  inscription :  — 

"Monsieur  Love,  Anglais,  a  l'entresol." 

And  if  you  had  crossed  the  threshold  and  mounted  the 
stairs,  and   gained   that   mysterious   story   inhabited  by 


24G  NIGUT   AND    MORNING. 

Monsieur  Love,  you  would  have  seen,  upon  another 
door  to  the  right,  another  epigraph,  informing  those  in- 
terested in  the  inquiry  that  the  bureau  of  M.  Love  was 
open  daily  from  nine  in  the  morning  to  four  in  the 
afternoon. 

The  office  of  M.  Love  —  for  office  it  Avas,  and  of  a 
nature  not  unfrequently  designated  in  the  ^^  petites 
ajffiches"  of  Paris  —  had  been  established  about  six 
months;  and  whether  it  was  the  popularity  of  the  pro- 
fession, or  the  shape  of  tlie  shop,  or  the  manners  of 
M.  Love  himself,  I  cannot  pretend  to  say,  but  certain  it 
is  that  the  Temple  of  Hymen  —  as  M.  Love  classically 
termed  it  —  had  become    exceedmgly    in    vogue    in    the 

Faubourg  St.  .     It  was  rumored  that  no  less  than 

nine  marriages  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  had  been 
manufactured  at  this  fortunate  office,  and  that  they  had 
all  turned  out  happily  except  one,  in  which  the  bride 
being  sixty,  and  the  bridegroom  twenty-four,  there  had 
been  rumors  of  domestic  dissension;  but  as  the  lady 
had  been  delivered  —  I  mean  of  her  husband,  who  had 
drowned  himself  in  the  Seine  —  about  a  month  after  the 
ceremony,  things  had  turned  out  in  the  long  run  better 
than  might  have  been  expected,  and  the  widow  was  so 
little  discouraged  that  she  had  been  seen  to  enter  the 
office  already,  —  a  circumstance  that  was  greatly  to  the 
credit  of  Mr.   Love. 

Perhaps  the  secret  of  Mr.  Love's  success,  and  of  the 
marked  superiority  of  his  establishment  in  rank  and 
popularity  over  similar  ones,  consisted  in  the  spirit  and 
liberality  with  which  the  business  was  conducted.  He 
seemed  resolved  to  destroy  all  formality  between  parties 
who  might  desire  to  draw  closer  to  each  other,  and  he 
hit  upon  the  lucky  device  of  a  table  d'hote,  very  well 
managed  and  held  twice  a  week,  and  often  followed  by  a 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  247 

soiree  dansante  ;  so  that,  if  they  pleased,  the  aspirants 
to  matrimonial  happiness  might  become  acquainted  with- 
out (jhie.  As  he  himself  was  a  jolly,  convivial  fellow  of 
much  savoir  vivre,  it  is  astonishing  how  well  he  made 
these  entertainments  answer.  Persons  who  had  not 
seemed  to  take  to  each  other  in  the  firpt  distant  inter- 
view grew  extremely  enamored  when  the  corks  of  the 
champagne  —  an  extra  of  course  in  the  abonnemefit  — 
bounced  against  the  wall.  Added  to  this,  Mr.  Love 
took  great  pains  to  know  the  tradesmen  in  his  neighbor- 
hood; and,  what  with  his  jokes,  his  appearance  of  easy 
circumstances,  and  the  fluency  with  which  he  spoke 
the  language,  he  became  a  universal  favorite.  Many 
persons  who  were  uncommonly  starch  m  general,  and 
who  professed  to  ridicule  the  bureau,  saw  nothing  impro- 
per in  dining  at  the  table  dliote.  To  those  who  wished 
for  secrecy,  he  was  said  to  be  wonderfully  discreet ;  but 
there  were  others  who  did  not  affect  to  conceal  their 
discontent  at  the  single  state :  for  the  rest,  the  entertain- 
ments were  so  contrived  as  never  to  shock  the  delicac}', 
while  they  always  forwarded  the  suit. 

It  was  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  Mr. 
Love  was  still  seated  at  dinner,  or  rather  at  dessert,  with 
a  party  of  guests.  His  apartments,  though  small,  were 
somewhat  gaudily  painted  and  furnished,  and  his  dining- 
room  was  decorated  a  la  Txirque.  The  party  consisted, 
—  first,  of  a  rich  Spicier,  a  widower.  Monsieur  Goupille 
by  name,  an  eminent  man  in  the  faubourg;  he  was  in 
his  grand  climacteric,  but  still  belhomme  ;  wore  a  very 
well  made  perugue  of  light  auburn,  with  tight  panta- 
loons, which  contained  a  pair  of  very  respectable  calves ; 
and  his  white  neckcloth  and  his  large  frill  were  washed 
and  got  up  with  especial  care.  Kext  to  INIonsieur 
Goupille  sat  a  very  demure  and  very  spare  young  lady  of 


2-48  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

about   two-and-tlurty,    who   was   said   to   have   saved  a 
fortune  —  Heaven  knows  how  —  in  the  family  of  a  rich 
English  milord,  where  she  had  officiated  as  governess; 
she  called  herself  Mademoiselle  Adele  de  Courval,  and 
was  very  particular  about  the  de,  and   very  melancholy 
about  her  ancestors.    Monsieur  Goupille  generally  put  his 
finger   through   his  periniue,  and  fell  away   a  little    on 
his   left  pantaloon   when   he  spoke  to  Mademoiselle  de 
Courval,  and  Mademoiselle  de  Courval  generally  pecked 
at  her  bouquet  when  she  answered  Monsieur  Goupille. 
On  the  other  side  of  this  young  lady  sat  a  fuie-looking 
fair  man ,  —  M.  Sovolof ski,  a  Pt)le,  buttoned  up  to  the 
chin,   and  rather  threadbare,   though  uncommonly  neat. 
He  was  flanked  by  a  little  fat  lady  who  had  been  very 
pretty,  and  who  kept  a  boarding-house,  or  pension,  for 
the    English,   she    herself    being   English,    though    long 
established  in  Paris.     Riimor  said  she  had  been  gay  in 
her  youth,  and  dropped  in  Paris  by  a  Russian  nobleman, 
with  a  very  pretty  settlement,  —  she  and  the  settlement 
having  equally  expanded  by  time  and   season :  she  was 
called  Madame  Beavor.     On  the  other  side  of  the  table 
Avas   a  red-headed  Englishman,   who    spoke   very   little 
French;   who  had   been   told   that  French   ladies  were 
passionately  fond  of  light  hair;  and  who,  having  £2000 
of  his  own,  intended  to  quadruple  that  sum  by  a  prudent 
marriage.     Nobody  knew  what  his  family   was,  but  his 
name  was  Higgins.     His  neighbor  was   an  exceedingly 
tall,  large-boned  Frenchman,  with  a  long  nose  and  a  red 
ribWni,  who  was  much  seen  at  Frascati's,  and  had  served 
luider  Napoleon.      Then    came   another  lady,   extremely 
pretty,  very  puiuante,  and  very  gay,  but  past  the  ^:*re- 
miere  jeunesse,  who  ogled  Mr.  Love  more  than  she  did 
any  of  his  guests :  she  was  called  Kosalie  Caumartin,  and 
was  at  the  head  of  a  large  bon-bon  establishment;  mar- 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  240 

ried,  but  her  husband  had  gone  four  years  ago  to  the  Isle 
of   France,   and  she  was  a  little   doubtful  whether   she 
miglit  not  be  justly  entitled  to  the  privileges  of  a  widow. 
Next  to  Mr.  Love,  in  the  place  of  honor,  sat  no  less  a 
person  than  the  V'icomte  de  Vaudemont,  a  French  gen- 
tleman,   really    well-born,   but   whose   various   excesses, 
added  to  his  poverty,  had  not  served   to   sustain   that 
respect  for  his  birth  which  he  considered  due  to  it.     He 
had  already  been    twice  married:   once    to    an    English- 
woman, who  had  been  decoyed  by  the  title ;  by  this  lady, 
who  died  in  childbed,  he  had  one  son,  — a  fact  which  he 
sedulously  concealed  from  the  world  of  Paris  by  keeping 
the  unhappy  boy  —  who  was  now  some  eighteen  or  nine- 
teen years  old  —  a  perpetual  exile  in  England.      Monsieur 
de  Vaudemont  did  not  wish  to  pass  for  more  than  thirty, 
and  he  considered  that  to  produce  a  son  of  eighteen  would 
be  to  make  the  lad  a  monster  of  ingratitude  by  giving  the 
lie  every  hour  to  his  own  father !     In  spite  of  this  pre- 
caution,   the  vicomte  found  great  difficulty  in  getting  a 
third  wife,  —  especially  as  he   had  no  actual  and  visible 
income;   was,   not  seamed,   but  ploughed  up,   with  the 
small-pox;    small  of  stature,    and  was    considered   more 
than  un  jse^t  hete.     He  was,  however,  a  prodigious  dandy, 
and  wore  a  lace  frill  and  embroidered  waistcoat.     Mr. 
Love's  vis-a-vis  was  Mr.  Birnie,   an  Englishman,  a  sort 
of  assistant  in  the  establishment,  with  a  hard,  dry,  parch- 
ment face,  and  —  a  remarkable  talent  for  silence.     The 
host  himself  Avas  a  splendid  animal :  his  vast  chest  seemed 
to  occupy  more  space  at  the  table  than  any  four  of  his 
guests,   yet  he  was  not  corpulent  or  vuiwieldy;    he  was 
dressed  in  black,  wore  a  velvet  stock  very  high,  and  four 
gold  studs  glittered  in  his  shirt  front;  he  w^as  bald  to  the 
crown,  which  made  his  forehead  appear  singularly  lofty, 
and  what  hair  he  had  left  was  a  little  grayish  and  curled; 


250  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

his  face  was  shaved  smoothly,  except  a  close-clipped 
mustache;  and  his  eyes,  though  small,  were  bright  and 
piercing.      Such  was  the  party. 

"  These  are  the  best  bons-hons  I  ever  ate, "  said  Mr. 
Love,  glancing  at  Madame  Caumartin.  "  My  fair  friends 
have  compassion  on  tlie  table  of  a  poor  bachelor. " 

"  But  you  ought  not  to  be  a  bachelor.  Monsieur  Lofe, " 
replied  the  fair  Rosalie,  with  an  arch  look ;  "  you  who 
make  others  marry,  should  set  the  example." 

"  All  in  good  time, "  answered  Mr.  Love,  nodding ; 
"  one  serves  one's  customers  to  so  much  happiness  that 
one  has  none  left  for  one's  self. " 

Here  a  loud  explosion  was  heard.  Monsieur  Gou- 
pille  had  pulled  one  of  the  bon-bon  crackers  with 
Mademoiselle  Adele. 

"I've  got  the  motto! — no,  monsieur  has  it:  I'm 
always  unlucky, "  said  the  gentle  Adele. 

The  epicier  solemnly  unrolled  the  httle  sHp  of  paper; 
the  print  was  very  small,  and  he  longed  to  take  out  his 
spectacles,  but  he  thought  that  would  make  him  look 
old.  However,  he  spelled  through  the  motto  with  some 
difficidty  :  — 

"  Conirae  elle  fait  soumettre  un  coeur, 
En  refusant  son  doux  honimagc, 
Oil  peut  trailer  la  coquette  en  vainqueur  : 
De  la  beaute  modeste  on  cherit  I'esclavage."  ^ 

"  I  present  it  to  mademoiselle, "  said  he,  laying  the 
motto  solemnly  in  Adele's  plate,  upon  a  little  mountain. 
of  chestnut  husks. 

"  It  is  very  pretty, "  said  she,  looking  down. 

1  The  coquette  who  subjugates  a  heart,  yet  refuses  its  tender 
homage,  one  may  treat  as  a  conqueror ;  of  modest  beauty  we  cherish 
the  slavery. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  251 

"It  is  very  apropos,"  whispered  the  epicier,  caress- 
ing the  po'ucpie  a  little  too  roughly  in  his  emotion.  Mr. 
Love  gave  him  a  kick  under  the  table,  and  put  his  finger 
to  his  own  bald  head,  and  then  to  his  nose  significantly. 
The  intelligent  epicier  smoothed  back  the  irritated 
jieruque. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  ho7is-hons,  Mademoiselle  Adele  ? 
I  have  a  very  fijie  stock  at  home,"  said  Monsieur 
Goupille. 

Mademoiselle  Ad^le  de  Courval  sighed,  "  Helas  !  they 
remind  me  of  happier  days,  when  I  was  a  petite,  and  my 
dear  grandmamma  took  me  in  her  lap,  and  told  me  how 
she  escaped  the  guillotine:  she  was  an  emigree,  and  you 
know  her  father  was  a  marquis. " 

The  epicier  bowed  and  looked  piizzled.  He  did  not 
quite  see  the  connection  between  the  hons-bons  and  the 
guillotine. 

"  You  are  triste,  monsieur,"  observed  Madame  Beavor, 
in  rather  a  piqued  tone,  to  the  Pole,  who  had  not  said  a 
word  since  the  rati. 

"  Madame,  an  exile  is  always  triste :  I  think  of  my 
pauvre  pays. " 

"  Bah  !  "  cried  Mr.  Love.  "  Think  that  there  is  no 
exile  by  the  side  of  a  helle  dame." 

The  Pole  smiled  mournfully. 

"  Pull  it, "  said  Madame  Beavor,  holding  a  cracker  to 
the  patriot,  and  turning  away  her  face. 

"  Yes,  madame ;  I  wish  it  were  a  cannon  in  defence  of 
La  Polorjne." 

With  this  magniloquent  aspiration,  the  gallant  Sovo- 
lofski  pulled  lustily,  and  then  rubbed  his  fingers,  with  a 
little  grimace,  observing  that  crackers  were  sometimes 
dangerous,  and  that  the  present  combustible  was  d'une 
force  immense. 


252  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  Helus  !  J'ai  cm  jusi[u';i  ce  jour 
Pouvoir  triompher  de  ramour,"^ 

said  IMadame  Beavor,  reading  the  motto.  "  Wliat  do 
you  say  to  that  ?  " 

"  Madame,  there  is  no  triumph  for  La  Pologne  !  " 

Madame  Beavor  uttered  a  little  peevish  exclamation, 
and  glanced  in  despair  at  her  red-headed  countryman. 
"  Are  you,  too,  a  great  politician,  sir  1  "  said  she,  in 
English. 

"  Xo,  mem  !  —  I  'm  all  for  the  ladies. " 

"  What  does  he  say  ?  "  asked  Madame  Caumartin. 

"  Monsieur  Higgins  est  tout  pour  les  dames. " 

"  To  be  sure  he  is, "  cried  Mr.  Love :  "  all  the  English 
are,  especially  with  that  colored  hair:  a  lady  who 
likes  a  passionate  adorer  should  always  marry  a  man 
with  gold-colored  hair,  —  always.  What  do  you  say, 
Mademoiselle  Adele  1 " 

"  Oh,  I  like  fair  hair, "  said  mademoiselle,  looking 
baslifully  askew  at  Monsieur  Goupille's  peruque. 
"  Grandmamma  said  her  papa  —  the  marquis  —  used 
yellow  powder :  it  must  have  been  very  pretty. " 

"  Rather  a  la  Sucre  d^orge, "  remarked  the  epicier, 
smiling  on  the  right  side  of  his  mouth,  where  his  best 
teeth  were. 

Mademoiselle  de  Courval  looked  displeased.  "  I  fear 
you  are  a  republican,  Monsieur  Goupille  1  " 

"  I,  mademoiselle  ?  No ;  1  'm  for  the  Restoration ;  " 
and  again  the  ep  icier  perplexed  himself  to  discover  the 
association  of  idea  between  republicanism  and  sucre  d'orge. 

"  Another  glass  of  wine.  Come,  another, "  said  Mr. 
Love,  stretching  across  the  vicomte  to  help  Madame 
Caumartin. 

1  AIa« !  I  believed  until  to-day  that  I  could  triumpli  over  love. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  253 

"  Sir, "  said  the  tall  Frenchman  with  the  ribbon,  eying 
the  ep icier  with  great  disdain,  "  you  say  you  are  for 
the  Restoration:  I  am  for  the  Empire,  —  moi  !  " 

"  No  politics  !  "  cried  Mr.  Love.  "  Let  us  adjourn  to 
the  salon." 

The  vicomte,  who  had  seemed  supremely  ennuye 
during  this  dialogue,  plucked  Mr.  Love  by  the  sleeve 
as  he  rose,  and  whispered  petulantly,  "  I  do  not  see  any 
one  here  to  suit  me.  Monsieur  Love,  —  none  of  my 
rank." 

"  J/o 71  i)<e« .'"  answered  Mr.  Love;  "point  (Targent 
2ioint  de  Suisse.  I  could  introduce  you  to  a  duchess; 
but  then  the  fee  is  high.  There 's  Mademoiselle  de 
Courval,  — she  dates  from  the  Carlovingians. " 

"  She  is  very  like  a  boiled  sole, "  answered  the 
vicomte,  with  a  wry  face.  "  Still,  —  what  dower  has 
she  ?  " 

"  Forty  thousand  francs,  and  sickly, "  replied  Mr. 
Love ;  "  but  she  likes  a  tall  man,  and  Monsieur 
Goupille  is  —  " 

"  Tall  men  are  never  well  made, "  interrupted  the 
vicomte,  angrily ;  and  he  drew  himself  aside  as  Mr.  Love, 
gallantly  advancing,  gave  his  arm  to  Madame  Beavor, 
because  the  Pole  had,  in  rismg,  folded  both  his  own  arms 
across  his  breast. 

"  Excuse  me,  ma'am, "  said  Mr.  Love  to  Madame 
Beavor,  as  they  adjourned  to  the  salon,  "  I  don't  think 
you  manage  that  brave  man  well." 

"  Ma  foi,  comme  il  est  ennuyeux  avec  sa  Pologne, " 
replied  ISIadame  Beavor,    shrugging  her  shoulders. 

"  True ;  but  he  is  a  very  fine-shaped  man ;  and  it  ia 
a  comfort  to  think  that  one  will  have  no  rival  but  his 
country.  Trust  me,  and  encourage  him  a  little  more; 
I  think  he  would  suit  you  to  a  T." 


254  NIGHT   AND   MOUNING. 

Here  the  attendant  engaged  for  the  evening  announced 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Giraud ;  whereupon  there  entered 
a  little,  little  couple,  —  very  fair,  very  plump,  and  very 
like  each  other.  This  was  Mr.  Love's  show  couple,  his 
decoy  ducks,  his  last  best  example  of  match-making ;  they 
had  been  married  two  months  out  of  the  bureau,  and 
were  the  admiration  of  the  neighborhood  for  their  con- 
jugal affection.  As  they  were  now  imited,  they  had 
ceased  to  frequent  the  table  d'hote  ;  but  Mr.  Love  often 
invited  them  after  the  dessert,  pour  encourager  les 
autres. 

"  My  dear  friends, "  cried  Mr.  Love,  shaking  each  by 
the  hand,  "  I  am  ravished  to  see  you.  Ladies  and  gentle- 
men, I  present  to  you  Monsieur  and  Madame  Giraud, 
the  happiest  couple  in  Christendom:  if  I  had  done 
notliing  else  in  my  life  but  bring  them  together,  I  should 
not  have  lived  in  vain !  " 

The  company  eyed  the  objects  of  this  eulogium  with 
great  attention. 

"  jVIonsieur,  my  prayer  is  to  deserve  my  bonheur, "  said 
Monsieur  Giraud. 

"  Cher  ange !  "  murmured  madame :  and  the  happy 
pair  seated  themselves  next  to  each  other. 

Mr.  Love,  who  was  all  for  those  innocent  pastimes 
which  do  away  with  conventional  formality  and  reserve, 
now  proposed  a  game  at  "  Hunt  the  Slipper, "  which  was 
welcomed  by  the  whole  party,  except  the  Pole  and  the 
vicomte:  though  Mademoiselle  Adele  looked  prudish, 
and  observed  to  the  Spicier  that  "  Monsieur  Lofe  was  so 
droll,  but  she  should  not  have  liked  her  paiivre  grand- 
ntaman  to  see  her." 

The  vicomte  had  stationed  himself  opposite  to  Made- 
moiselle de  Courval,  and  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  very 
tenderly. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  255 

"  Mademoiselle,  I  see,  does  not  approve  of  such  bour- 
geois diversions,"  said  he, 

"  No,  monsieur, "  said  the  gentle  Adele ;  "  but  I  think 
we  must  sacrifice  our  own  tastes  to  those  of  the  company." 

"  It  is  a  very  amiable  sentiment, "  said  the  epicier. 

"  It  is  one  attributed  to  grandmamma's  pajia,  the 
Marquis  de  Courval.  It  has  become  quite  a  hackneyed 
remark  since, "  said  Adele. 

"  Come,  ladies, "  said  the  joyous  Eosalie ;  "  I  volunteer 
my  slipper," 

"  Asseyez-vous  done, "  said  Madame  Beavor  to  the 
Pole.     "  Have  you  no  games  of  this  sort  in  Poland  1  " 

"Madame,  La  Pologne  is  no  more,"  said  the  Pole. 
"  But  with  the  swords  of  her  brave  —  " 

"  No  swords  here,  if  you  please, "  said  Mr.  Love,  put- 
ting his  vast  hands  on  the  Pole's  shoulders,  and  sinking 
him  forcibly  down  into  the  circle  now  formed. 

The  game  proceeded  with  great  vigor  and  much 
laugliter  from  Eosalie,  Mr.  Love,  and  Madame  Beavor, 
especially  whenever  the  last  thumped  the  Pole  with 
the  heel  of  the  slipper.  Monsieur  Giraud  was  always 
sure  that  Madame  Giraud  had  the  slipper  about  her, 
which  persuasion  on  his  part  gave  rise  to  many  little 
endearments,  which  are  always  so  innocent  among 
married  people.  The  vicomte  and  the  epicier  were 
equally  certain  the  slipper  was  with  Mademoiselle  Adele, 
who  defended  herself  Avith  much  more  energy  than 
might  have  been  supposed  in  one  so  gentle.  The 
epicier,  however,  grew  jealous  of  the  attentions  of  his 
noble  rival,  and  told  him  that  he  geni'd  mademoiselle : 
whereupon  the  vicomte  called  him  an  impertinent ;  and 
the  tall  Frenchman  with  the  red  ribbon  sprang  up,  and 
said,  — 

"  Can  I  be  of  any  assistance,  gentlemen  ?  " 


256  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

Therewith  Mr.  Love,  tlie  great  peacemaker,  inter- 
posed, and,  reconciling  the  rivals,  proposed  to  change 
the  game  to  Colin  Maillard,  xhiglice,  "  Blind  Man's 
Eutf."  Rosalie  clapped  her  hands,  and  offered  herself 
to  be  blindfolded.  The  tables  and  chairs  were  cleared 
away ;  and  Madame  Beavor  pushed  the  Pole  into 
Kosalie's  arms,  who,  having  felt  him  about  the  face  for 
some  moments,  guessed  him  to  be  the  tall  Frenchman. 
During  this  time,  Monsieur  and  Madame  Giraud  hid 
themselves  behind  the  window-curtain. 

"Amuse  yourself,  mon  ami,"  said  Madame  Beavor  to 
the  liberated  Pole. 

"  Ah,  madame, "  s.ighed  Monsieur  Sovolofski,  "  how 
can  I  be  gay  ?  All  my  property  confiscated  by  the 
Emperor  of  Russia !     Has  La  Pologne  no  Brutus  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  are  in  love, "  said  the  host,  clapping  him 
on  the  back. 

"Are  you  quite  sure,"  whispered  the  Pole  to  the 
match-maker,  "  that  Madame  Beavor  has  vingt  mille 
liores  de  rentes  ?  " 

"  Xot  a  sou  less. " 

The  Pole  mused,  and,  glancing  at  Madame  Beavor, 
said,  "  And  yet,  madame,  your  charming  gayety  consoles 
me  amidst  all  my  sufferings ; "  upon  which  Madame 
Beavor  called  him  "  flatterer, "  and  rapped  his  knuckles 
with  her  fan;  the  latter  proceeding  the  brave  Pole  did 
not  seem  to  like,  for  he  immediately  buried  his  hands  in 
his  trousers-pockets. 

The  game  was  now  at  its  meridian.  Rosalie  was 
uncommonly  active,  and  flew  about  here  and  there, 
much  to  the  harassment  of  the  Pole,  who  repeatedly 
wipeti  his  forehead,  and  observed  that  it  was  warm 
work,  and  put  him  in  mind  of  the  last  sad  battle  for 
La  Pologne.     Monsieur  Goupille,  who  had  lately  taken 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  257 

lessons  in  dancing,  and  was  vain  of  liis  agility,  mounted 
the  chairs  and  tables,  as  llosalie  approached,  with  great 
grace  and  gravity.  It  so  happened  that  in  these  salta- 
tions he  ascended  a  stool  near  the  curtain  beliind  which 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Giraud  were  ensconced.  Some- 
what agitated  by  a  slight  flutter  behind  the  folds,  which 
made  him  fancy,  on  the  sudden  panic,  that  Rosalie  was 
creeping  that  way,  the  ep icier  made  an  abrupt  jji^'ouette, 
and  the  hook  on  which  the  curtains  were  suspended 
caught  his  left  coat-tail,  — - 

"  The  fatal  vesture  left  the  unguarded  side  :  " 

just  as  he  turned  to  extricate  the  garment  from  that 
dilemma,  Rosalie  sprimg  upon  him,  and  naturally  lift- 
ing her  hands  to  that  height  where  she  fancied  the 
human  face  divine,  took  another  extremity  of  INIonsieur 
Goupille's  graceful  frame,  thus  exposed  by  surprise. 

"  I  don't  know  who  this  is.  Quelle  drole  de  visage  !  " 
muttered  Rosalie. 

"  Mn  is,  madame, "  faltered  Monsieur  Goupille,  look- 
ing greatly  disconcerted. 

The  gentle  Ad^le,  who  did  not  seem  to  relish  this  ad- 
venture, came  to  tlie  relief  of  her  wooer,  and  pinched 
Rosalie  very  sharply  in  the  arm. 

"  That 's  not  fair.  But  I  will  know  who  this  is, " 
cried  Rosalie,  angrily ;  "  you  sha'n't  escape !  " 

A  sudden  and  universal  burst  of  laughter  roused  her 
suspicions ;  she  drew  back,  —  and  exclaiming,  "  Mais, 
quelle  mauvaise  plaisanterie ;  e'est  trop  fort !  "  applied 
her  fair  hand  to  tlie  place  in  dispute  vfith  so  hearty  a 
goodwill,  that  IMonsieur  Goupille  uttered  a  dolorous  cry, 
and  sprung  from  the  chair,  leaving  the  coat-tail  (the 
cause  of  all  his  woe)  suspended  upon  the  hook. 

It  was  just  at  this  moment,  and  in  the  midst  of  the 

VOL.  I. — 17 


258  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

excitoment  caused  by  Monsieur  Goupille's  misfortune, 
that  the  door  opened,  and  the  attendant  reappeared, 
followed  by  a  young  man  in  a  large  cloak. 

The  new-comer  paused  at  the  threshold,  and  gazed 
aroiind  him  in  evident  surprise. 

"  Diahle !  "  said  Mr.  Love,  approaching,  and  gazing 
hard  at  the  stranger.  "  Is  it  possible  ?  You  are  come 
at  last  1     Welcome !  " 

"  But, "  said  the  stranger,  apparently  still  bewildered, 
"  there  is  some  mistake ;  you  are  not  —  " 

"  Yes ;  I  am  Mr.  Love !  —  Love  all  the  world  over. 
How  is  our  friend  Gregg  ?  —  told  you  to  address  yourself 
to  Mr.  Love,  eh  ?  —  Mum !  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  an 
acquisition  to  our  party.  Fine  fellow  —  eh  ?  Five 
feet  eleven  without  his  shoes,  —  and  young  enough  to 
hope  to  be  thrice  married  before  he  dies.  When  did  you 
arrive  1  " 

"To-day." 

And  thus  Philip  Morton  and  Mr.  William  Gawtrey 
met  once  more. 


NIGHT   AKD   MORNING.  259 


CHAPTER   II. 

Happy  the  man  who,  void  of  care  and  strife, 
In  silken  or  in  leathern  purse  retains 
A  splendid  shilling ! 

The  Splendid  Shilling, 

And  wherefore  should  they  take  or  care  for  thought, 

The  unreasoning  vulgar  willingly  obey, 

And,  leaving  toil  and  poverty  behind. 

Run  forth  by  different  ways,  the  blissful  boon  to  find. 

West's  Education. 

"  Poor  boy !  your  story  interests  me.  The  events  are 
romantic,  but  the  moral  is  practical,  old,  everlasting,  — 
life,  boy,  life.  Poverty  by  itself  is  no  such  great  curse ; 
that  is,  if  it  stops  short  of  starving.  And  passion  by 
itself  is  a  noble  thing,  sir;  but  poverty  and  passion  to- 
gether, poverty  and  feeling,  poverty  and  pride,  the 
poverty  one  is  not  born  to,  but  falls  into;  and  the  man 
who  ousts  you  out  of  your  easy-chair,  kicking  you  with 
every  turn  he  takes,  as  he  settles  himself  more  comfort- 
ably :  why  there  's  no  romance  in  that,  —  hard  every-day 
life,  sir!  Well,  well.  So,  after  your  brother's  letter, 
you  resigned  yourself  to  that  fellow  Smith  1  " 

"  No ;  I  gave  him  my  money,  not  my  soul.  I  turned 
from  his  door,  with  a  few  shillings  that  he  himself 
tlirust  into  my  hand,  and  walked  on,  —  I  cared  not 
whither :  out  of  the  town,  into  the  fields,  —  till  night 
came ;  and  then,  just  as  I  suddenly  entered  on  the  high- 
road, many  miles  away,  the  moon  rose,  and  I  saw  by  the 
hedge-side,  something  that  seemed  like  a  corpse.  It  was 
an  old  beggar,  in  the  last  state  of  raggedness,  disease,  and 


2G0  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

famine.    He  had  lain  himself  down  to  die.    I  shared  with 
him  what  I  had,   and  helped  him  to  a  little   inn.     As 
he  crossed  the  threshold,  he  turned  round  and  blessed  me. 
Do  you  know,  the  moment  I  heard  that  blessing,  a  stone 
seemed  rolled  away  from  my  heart.     I  said  to  myself, 
'  "What  then  !  even  /  can  be  of  use  to  some  one ;  and  I 
am  better  off  than  tliat  old  man,  for  I  have  youth  and 
health.'     As   these  thoughts  stirred  in  me,    my  limbs, 
before  heavy  with  fatigue,  grew  light ;  a  strange  kind  of 
excitement  seized  me.      I  ran  on  gayly  beneath  the  moon- 
light that  smiled  over  the  crisp  broad  road.     I  felt  as  if 
no  house,  not  even  a  palace,  were  large  enough  for  me 
that  night.     And    Avhen,    at  last,    wearied  out,    I    crept 
into  a  wood,  and  laid  myself  down  to  sleep ,  I  still  mur- 
mured to  myself,    'I  have  youth  and  health.'     But  in 
the  morning,  when  I  rose,  I  stretched  out  my  arms,  and 
missed  my  brother!  ...   In  two  or  three  days  I  found 
employment  with  a  farmer;  but  we   quarrelled  after  a 
few  weeks ;  for  once  he  wished  to  strike  me :  and,  some- 
how or  other,  I  could  work  but  not  serve.     Winter  had 
begun  when  we  parted.     Oh,  such  a  winter!     Then  — 
then  I  knew   what   it   was   to   be   houseless.      How   I 
lived  for  some  months,  —  if  to  live  it  can  be  called,  — 
it  would  pain  you  to  hear,  and  humble  me  to  tell.     At 
last  I  found  myself  again  in  London;  and  one  evening, 
not   many  days  since,   I  resolved  at  last  —  for  nothing 
else  seemed  left,   and  I  had  not  touched  food   for   two 
days  —  to  come  to  you. " 

"  And  why  did  that  never  occur  to  you  before  ?  " 
"Because,"  said   Philip,  with  a  deep  blush, — "be- 
cause I  trembled  at  the  power  over  my  actions  and  my 
future  life  that  I  was  to  give  to  one  whom  I  was  to  blesa 
as  a  benefactor,  yet  distrust  as  a  guide. " 

"  Well,"  said  Love,  or  Gawtrey,  with  a  singular  mix- 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  261 

ture  of  irony  and  compassion  in  his  voice;  "and  it 
was  hunger,  then,  that  terrified  you  at  last  even  more 
than  I ? " 

"Perhaps  hunger,  —  or  perhaps  rather  the  reasoning 
that  comes  from  hunger.  I  had  not,  I  say,  touched  food 
for  two  days;  and  I  was  standing  on  that  bridge,  from 
which  on  one  side  you  see  the  palace  of  a  head  of  the 
Church,  on  the  other  the  towers  of  the  Abbey,  within 
which  the  men  I  have  read  of  in  history  lie  buried.  It 
was  a  cold  frosty  evening,  and  the  river  below  looked 
bright  with  the  lamps  and  stars.  I  leaned,  weak  and 
sickening,  against  the  wall  of  the  bridge;  and  in  one  of 
the  arched  recesses  beside  me  a  cripple  held  out  his  hat 
for  pence.  I  envied  him! — he  had  a  livelihood;  he 
was  inured  to  it,  perhaps  bred  to  it:  he  had  no  shame. 
By  a  sudden  impulse,  I  too  turned  abruptly  round, 
held  out  my  hand  to  the  first  passenger,  and  started  at 
the  shrillness  of  my  own  voice,  as  it  cried,  '  Charity.'  " 

Gawtrey  threw  another  log  on  the  fire,  looked  com- 
placently round  the  comfortable  room,  and  rubbed  his 
hands.     The  young  man  continued ,  — 

"  *  You  should  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  — I  've  a  great 
mind  to  give  you  to  the  police,'  was  the  answer,  in  a 
pert  and  sharp  tone.  I  looked  up,  and  saw  the  livery 
my  father's  menials  had  worn.  I  had  been  begging  my 
bread  from  Robert  Beaufort's  lackey!  I  said  nothing; 
the  man  went  on  his  business  on  tiptoe,  that  the  mud 
might  not  splash  above  the  soles  of  his  shoes.  Then 
thoughts  so  black  that  they  seemed  to  blot  out  every 
star  from  the  sky  —  thoughts  I  had  often  wrestled 
against,  but  to  which  I  now  gave  myself  up  with  a  sort 
of  mad  joy  —  seized  me:  and  I  remembered  you.  I  had 
still  preserved  the  address  you  gave  me ;  I  went  straight 
to  the  house.     Your  friend,  on  naming   you,  received 


262  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

me  kindly,  and  without  question  placed  food  before  me, 
pressed  on  me  clothing  and  money,  procured  me  a  pass- 
port, gave  me  your  address,  —  and  now  I  am  beneath 
your  roof.  Gawtrey,  I  know  nothing  yet  of  the  world, 
but  the  dark  side  of  it.  I  know  not  what  to  deem  you ; 
but  as  you  alone  have  been  kind  to  me,  so  it  is  to  your 
kindness  rather  than  your  aid  that  I  now  cling:  your 
kind  words  and  kind  looks;  yet — "  he  stopped  short, 
and  breathed  hard. 

"Yet  you  would  know  more  of  me.  Faith,  my  boy, 
I  cannot  tell  you  more  at  this  moment.  I  believe,  to 
speak  fairly,  I  don't  live  exactly  within  the  pale  of  the 
law.  But  I'm  not  a  villain!  I  never  plundered  my 
friend  and  called  it  play !  —  I  never  murdered  my  friend 
and  called  it  honor!  —  I  never  seduced  my  friend's  wife 
and  called  it  gallantry!"  As  Gawtrey  said  this,  he 
drew  the  Avords  out,  one  by  one,  through  his  grinded 
teeth,  paused,  and  resumed  more  gayly,  "  I  struggle 
with  fortune;  volla  tout!  I  am  not  what  j'ou  seem  to 
suppose, — not  exactly  a  swindler,  certainly  not  a  rob- 
ber! But,  as  I  before  told  you,  I  am  a  charlatan;  so  is 
every  man  who  strives  to  be  richer  or  greater  than  he  is. 
I,  too,  want  kindness  as  much  as  you  do.  My  bread  and 
my  cup  are  at  your  service.  I  will  try  and  keep  you 
unsullied,  even  Vjy  the  clean  dirt  that  now  and  then 
sticks  to  me.  On  the  other  hand,  youth,  my  young 
friend,  has  no  right  to  play  the  censor;  and  you  must 
take  me  as  you  take  the  world,  without  being  over- 
scrupulous and  dainty.  My  present  vocation  pays  well ; 
in  fact,  I  am  beginning  to  lay  by.  My  real  name  and 
past  life  are  thoroughly  iinknown,  and  as  yet  unsus- 
pected in  this  quartier;  for  though  I  have  seen  much 
of  Paris,  my  career  hitherto  has  passed  in  other  parts  of 
the  city  :  and  for  the  rest,  own  that  I  am  well  disguised! 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  263 

What  a  benevolent  air  this  bald  forehead  gives  me,  — 
eh?  True,"  added  Gawtrey,  somewhat  more  seriously, 
"  if  I  saw  how  you  could  support  yourself  in  a  broader 
path  of  life  than  that  in  which  I  pick  out  my  own  way, 
I  might  say  to  you,  as  a  gay  man  of  fashion  might  say 
to  some  sober  stripling, — nay,  as  many  a  dissolute 
father  says  (or  ought  to  say)  to  his  son,  '  It  is  no  reason 
you  should  be  a  sinner,  because  I  am  not  a  saint. '  In 
a  word,  if  you  were  Avell  off  in  a  respectable  profession, 
you  might  have  safer  acquaintances  than  myself.  But 
as  it  is,  upon  my  word  as  a  plain  man,  I  don't  see  what 
you  can  do  better. "  Gawtrey  made  this  speech  with  so 
much  frankness  and  ease  that  it  seemed  greatly  to  relieve 
the  listener,  and  when  he  wound  up  with,  "  What  say 
you?  In  fine,  my  life  is  that  of  a  great  schoolboy,  get- 
ting into  scrapes  for  the  fun  of  it,  and  fighting  his  way 
out  as  he  best  can!  Will  you  see  how  you  like  it?" 
—  Philip,  with  a  confiding  and  grateful  impulse,  put  his 
hand  into  Gawtrey 's.  The  host  shook  it  cordially,  and, 
without  saying  another  word,  showed  his  guest  into  a 
little  cabinet  where  there  was  a  sofa-bed,  and  they  parted 
for  the  night. 

The  new  life  upon  which  Philip  Morton  entered  was 
so  odd,  so  grotesque,  and  so  amusing,  that  at  his  age  it 
was,  perhaps,  natural  that  he  should  not  be  clear-sighted 
as  to  its  danger, 

William  Gawtrey  was  one  of  those  men  who  are  born 
to  exert  a  certain  influence  and  ascendancy  wherever  they 
may  be  thrown;  his  vast  strength,  his  redundant  health, 
had  a  power  of  themselves,  —  a  moral  as  well  as  physical 
poAver,  He  naturally  possessed  high  animal  spirits,  be- 
neath the  surface  of  which,  however,  at  times,  there  was 
visible  a  certain  under-current  of  malignity  and  scorn. 
He  had  evidently   received  a  superior   education,  and 


264  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

could  command  at  will  the  manners  of  a  man  not  un- 
familiar with  a  politer  class  of  society.  From  the  first 
hour  that  Philip  had  seen  him  on  the  top  of  the  coach 

on  the  K road,  this  man  had  attracted  his  curiosity 

and  interest;  the  conversation  he  had  heard  in  the 
churchyard,  the  obligations  he  owed  to  Gawtrey  in  his 
escape  from  the  officers  of  justice,  the  time  afterwards 
passed  in  his  society  till  they  separated  at  the  little 
inn,  the  rough  and  hearty  kindliness  Gawtrey  had  shown 
him  at  that  period,  and  the  hospitality  extended  to  him 
now,  —  all  contributed  to  excite  his  fancy,  and  in  much, 
indeed,  very  much,  entitled  this  singular  person  to  his 
gratitude.  Morton,  in  a  word,  was  fascinated;  this  man 
M'as  the  only  friend  he  had  made.  I  have  not  thought 
it  necessary  to  detail  to  the  reader  the  conversations  that 
had  taken  place  between  them,  during  that  passage  of 
Morton's  life  when  he  was  before  for  some  days  Gaw- 
trey's  companion;  yet  those  conversations  had  sunk  deep 
in  his  mind.  He  was  struck,  and  almost  awed,  by  the 
profound  gloom  which  lurked  under  Gawtrey 's  broad 
humor,  — a  gloom,  not  of  temperament,  but  of  knowl- 
edge. His  views  of  life,  of  human  justice  and  human 
virtue  were  (as,  to  be  sure,  is  commonly  the  case  with 
men  who  have  had  reason  to  quarrel  with  the  world) 
dreary  and  despairing;  and  Morton's  own  experience 
hail  been  so  sad  tliat  these  opinions  were  more  influen- 
tial than  they  could  ever  have  been  with  the  happy. 
However,  in  this,  their  second  re-union,  there  was  a 
greater  gayety  than  in  their  first:  and  under  his  host's 
roof  Morton  insensibly,  ])ut  rapidly,  recovered  some- 
tliing  of  tlie  early  and  natural  tone  of  his  impetuous 
and  ardent  spirits.  Gawtrey  himself  was  generally  a 
boon  companion;  their  society,  if  not  select,  was  merry. 
When  their  evenings  were  disengaged,  Gawtrey  was  fond 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  265 

of  haunting  cafes  and  theatres,  and  Morton  was  his  com- 
panion; Birnie  (Mr.  Gawtrey's  partner)  never  accom- 
panied them.  Kefreshed  by  this  change  of  life,  the 
very  person  of  this  young  man  regained  its  bloom  and 
vigor,  as  a  plant,  removed  from  some  choked  atmos- 
phere and  unwholesome  soil,  where  it  had  struggled  for 
light  and  air,  expands  on  transplanting;  the  graceful 
leaves  burst  from  the  long-drooping  boughs,  and  the 
elastic  crest  springs  upward  to  the  sun  in  the  glory  of 
its  young  prime.  If  there  was  still  a  certain  fiery  stern- 
ness in  his  aspect,  it  had  ceased,  at  least,  to  be  haggard 
and  savage ;  it  even  suited  the  character  of  his  dark  and 
expressive  features.  He  might  not  have  lost  the  some- 
thing of  the  tiger  in  his  fierce  temper,  but,  in  the  sleek 
hues  and  the  sinewy  symmetry  of  the  frame,  he  began  to 
put  forth  also  something  of  the  tiger's  beauty. 

Mr.  Birnie  did  not  sleep  in  the  house,  he  went  home 
nightly  to  a  lodging  at  some  little  distance.  We  have 
said  but  little  about  this  man;  for,  to  all  appearance, 
there  was  little  enough  to  say :  he  rarely  opened  his  own 
mouth  except  to  Gawtrey,  with  whom  Philip  often  ob- 
served him  engaged  in  whispered  conferences,  to  which 
he  was  not  admitted.  His  eye,  however,  was  less  idle 
than  his  lips:  it  was  not  a  bright  eye;  on  the  contrary, 
it  was  dull,  and,  to  tlie  unobservant,  lifeless,  of  a  pale 
blue,  with  a  dim  film  over  it,  —  the  eye  of  a  vulture; 
but  it  had  in  it  a  calm,  heavy,  stealthy  watchfulness, 
which  inspired  Morton  with  great  distrust  and  aver- 
sion. Mr.  Birnie  not  only  spoke  French  like  a  native, 
but  all  his  habits,  his  gestures,  his  tricks  of  manner, 
were  French ;  not  the  French  of  good  society ,  but  more 
idiomatic,  as  it  were,  and  popular.  He  was  not  exactly 
a  vulgar  person,  —  he  was  too  silent  for  that,  —  but  he 
was  evidently  of  low  extraction  and  coarse  breeding;  liis 


2(36  NIGHT  AND   MOr.NING. 

accomplishments  were  of  a  mechanical  nature;  he  was 
an  extraordinary  arithmetician;  he  was  a  very  skilful 
chemist,  and  kept  a  laboratory  at  his  lodgings;  he 
mended  his  own  clothes  and  linen  with  incomparable 
neatness,  Philip  suspected  him  of  blacking  his  own 
shoes,  but  that  was  prejudice.  Once  he  found  Morton 
sketching  horses'  heads, — pour  se  desennuyer ;  and 
he  made  some  short  criticisms  on  the  drawings,  which 
showed  him  well  acquainted  with  the  art.  Philip,  sur- 
prised, sought  to  draw  him  into  conversation;  but  Birnie 
eluded  the  attempt,  and  observed  that  he  had  once  been 
an  engraver. 

Gawtrey  himself  did  not  seem  to  know  much  of  the 
early  life  of  this  person,  or  at  least  he  did  not  seem  to 
like  much  to  talk  of  him.  The  footstep  of  Mr.  Birnie 
Avas  gliding,  noiseless,  and  catlike;  he  had  no  sociality 
in  him,  enjoyed  nothing,  drank  hard,  —  but  was  never 
drunk.  Somehow  or  other,  he  had  evidently  over 
Gawtrey  an  influence  little  less  than  that  which  Gaw- 
trey had  over  Morton,  but  it  was  of  a  different  nature: 
Morton  had  conceived  an  extraordinary  affection  for  his 
friend,  while  Gawtrey  seemed  secretly  to  dislike  Birnie, 
and  to  be  glad  whenever  he  quitted  his  presence.  It 
was,  in  truth,  Gawtrey 's  custom,  when  Birnie  retired  for 
the  night,  to  rub  his  hands,  bring  out  the  punch-bowl, 
squeeze  the  lemons,  and  while  Philip,  stretched  on  the 
sofa,  listened  to  him,  between  sleep  and  waking,  to  talk 
on  for  the  hour  together,  often  till  daybreak,  with  that 
bizarre  mixture  of  knavery  and  feeling,  drollery  and  sen- 
timent, which  made  the  dangerous  charm  of  his  society. 

One  evening  as  they  thus  sat  together,  Morton,  after 
listening  for  .some  time  to  his  companion's  comments  on 
men  and  things,  said  abruptly,  — 

"  Gawtrey !  there  is  so  much  in  you  that  puzzles  me, 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  267 

BO  much  which  I  find  it  difFicnlt  to  reconcile  with  your 
present  pursuits,  that,  if  I  ask  no  indiscreet  confidence, 
I  should  like  greatly  to  hear  some  account  of  your  early 
life.  It  would  please  me  to  compare  it  with  my  own! 
when  I  am  your  age,  I  will  then  look  back  and  see  what 
I  owed  to  your  example." 

"My  early  life!  Avell, — you  shall  hear  it.  It  will 
put  you  on  your  guard,  I  hope,  betimes,  against  the  two 
rocks  of  youth, — love  and  friendship."  Then,  while 
squeezing  the  lemon  into  his  favorite  beverage,  which 
Morton  observed  he  made  stronger  than  usual,  Gawtrey 
thus  commenced 

THE   HISTORY    OF    A    GOOD-FOR-NOTHING. 


268  NIGHT   A2sD   MOKNING. 


CHAPTER   Iir. 

All  his  success  must  on  himself  depend, 
He  had  no  money,  counsel,  guide,  or  friend  ; 
With  spirit  high,  John  learned  the  world  to  hrave, 
And  in  both  senses  was  a  ready  knave. 

Crabbe. 

"  ]My  grandfather  sold  walking-sticks  and  umbrellas  in 
the  little  passage  by  Exeter  'Change;  he  was  a  man  of 
genius  and  speculation.  As  soon  as  he  had  scraped  to- 
gether a  little  money,  he  lent  it  to  some  poor  devil  with 
a  hard  landlord,  at  twenty  per  cent,  and  made  him  take 
half  the  loan  in  umbrellas  or  bamboos.  By  these  means 
he  got  his  foot  into  the  ladder,  and  climbed  upward  and 
upward,  till,  at  the  age  of  forty,  he  had  amassed  £5000. 
He  then  looked  about  for  a  wife.  An  honest  trader  in  the 
Strand,  who  dealt  largely  in  cotton  prints,  possessed  an 
only  daughter ;  this  young  lady  had  a  legacy  from  a  great 
aunt  of  £3220,  with  a  small  street  in  St.  Giles's,  where 
the  tenants  paid  weekly  (all  thieves  or  rogues,  — all,  so 
their  rents  were  sure).  Now,  my  grandfather  conceived 
a  great  friendship  for  the  father  of  this  young  lady,  gave 
him  a  hint  as  to  a  new  pattern  in  spotted  cottons,  en- 
ticed him  to  take  out  a  patent,  and  lent  him  £700  for 
the  speculation,  applied  for  the  money  at  the  very 
moment  cottons  were  at  their  worst,  and  got  the  daugh- 
ter instead  of  the  money,  — by  which  exchange,  you  see, 
he  won  £2520  to  say  nothing  of  the  young  lady.  My 
grandfather  then  entered  into  partnership  with  tlie 
worthy  trader,  carried  on  the   patent  with   spirit,  and 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  269 

begat  two  sons.  As  he  grew  older,  ambition  seized  him ; 
his  sous  should  be  gentlemen,  —  one  was  sent  to  college, 
the  other  put  into  a  marching  regiment.  My  grandfather 
meant  to  die  worth  a  plum ;  but  a  fever  he  caught  in  visit- 
ing his  tenants  in  St.  Giles's  prevented  him,  and  he  only- 
left  £20,000,  equally  divided  between  the  sons.  My 
father,  the  college-man  "  (here  Gawtrey  paused  a  moment, 
took  a  large  draught  of  the  punch,  and  resumed  with  a 
visible  effort)  —  "  my  father,  the  college-man,  was  a  per- 
son of  rigid  principles,  bore  an  excellent  character, 
had  a  great  regard  for  the  world.  He  married  early  and 
respectably.  I  am  the  sole  fruit  of  that  union;  he  lived 
soberly,  his  temper  was  harsh  and  morose,  his  home 
gloomy;  he  was  a  very  severe  father,  and  my  motlier 
died  before  I  was  ten  years  old.  When  I  was  fourteen, 
a  little  old  Frenchman  came  to  lodge  with  us;  he  had 
been  persecuted  under  the  old  regime  for  being  a  philos- 
opher; he  filled  my  head  with  odd  crotchets,  which,  more 
or  less,  have  stuck  there  ever  since.  At  eighteen  I  was 
sent  to  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge.  My  father  w^as 
rich  enough  to  have  let  me  go  up  in  the  higher  rank  of 
a  pensioner,  but  he  had  lately  grown  avaricious;  he 
thought  that  I  was  extravagant;  he  made  me  a  sizar, 
perhaps  to  spite  me.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  those  in- 
equalities in  life  which  the  Frenchman  had  dinned  into 
my  ears  met  me  practically.  A  sizar !  another  name  for 
a  dog!  I  had  such  strength,  health,  and  spirits,  that  I 
had  more  life  in  my  little  finger  than  half  the  fellow- 
commoners —  genteel,  spindle-shanked  striplings,  who 
might  have  passed  for  a  collection  of  my  grandfatlier's 
walking-canes  —  had  in  their  whole  bodies.  And  I 
often  think,"  continued  Gawtrey,  "that  health  and 
spirits  have  a  great  deal  to  answer  for!  When  we  are 
young,  we  so  far  resemble  savages  —  who  are  nature's 


270  NIGHT   AND    MORXIXG. 

young  people  —  that  we  attach  prodigious  value  to  phys- 
ical advantages.  My  feats  of  strength  and  activity,  — 
the  clods  I  thrashed,  and  the  railings  I  leaped,  and  the 
boat-races  I  won,  — are  they  not  written  in  the  chronicL) 
of  St.  John's?  These  achievements  inspired  me  with 
an  extravagant  sense  of  my  own  superiority ;  I  coiild  not 
but  despise  the  rich  fellows  whom  I  could  have  blown 
down  with  a  sneeze.  Nevertheless,  there  was  an  impas- 
sable barrier  between  me  and  them,  —  a  sizar  was  not  a 
proper  associate  for  the  favorites  of  fortune!  But  there 
was  one  young  man,  a  year  younger  than  myself,  of  high 
birth,  and  the  heir  to  considerable  wealth,  who  did  not 
regard  me  with  the  same  supercilious  insolence  as  the 
rest;  his  verj^  rank,  perhaps,  made  him  indifferent  to  the 
little  conventional  formalities  which  influence  persons 
who  cannot  play  at  football  with  this  round  world;  he 
was  the  wildest  youngster  in  the  university :  lamp- 
breaker,  tandem-driver,  mob-fighter, — a  very  devil,  in 
short;  clever,  but  not  in  the  reading  line;  small  and 
slight,  but  brave  as  a  lion.  Congenial  habits  made  us 
intimate,  and  I  loved  him  like  a  brother:  better  than  a 
brother,  —  as  a  dog  loves  his  master.  In  all  our  rows  I 
covered  him  with  my  body.  He  had  but  to  say  to  me, 
*  Leap  into  the  water,'  and  I  Avould  not  have  stopped  to 
pull  off  my  coat.  In  short,  I  loved  him  as  a  proud  man 
loves  one  who  stands  betwixt  him  and  contempt,  —  as  an 
affectionate  man  loves  one  who  stands  between  him  and 
solitude.  To  cut  short  a  long  story:  my  friend,  one 
dark  night,  committed  an  outrage  against  discipline  of 
the  most  unpardonable  character.  There  was  a  sancti- 
monious, grave  old  fellow  of  the  college  crawling  home 
from  a  tea-party  ;  my  friend  and  another  of  his  set  seized, 
blindfolded,  and  handcuffed  this  poor  wretch,  carried 
him  vi  et  armis,  back  to  the  house  of  an  old  maid  whom 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  271 

he  had  been  courting  for  the  last  ten  years,  fastened  his 
pigtail  (he  wore  a  long  one)  to  the  knocker,  and  so  left 
him.  You  may  imagine  the  infernal  hubbub  Avhich  his 
attempts  to  extricate  himself  caused  in  the  whole  street; 
the  old  maid's  old  maid-servant,  after  emptying  on  his 
head  all  the  vessels  of  wrath  she  could  lay  her  hand  to, 
screamed  *  Eape  and  murder!  '  The  proctor  and  his 
bull-dogs  came  up,  released  the  prisoner,  and  gave  chase 
to  the  delinquents,  who  had  incautiously  remained  near 
to  enjoy  the  sport.  Tlie  night  was  dark,  and  they 
reached  the  college  in  safety ;  but  they  had  been  tracked 
to  the  gates.      For  this  offence  /was  expelled." 

"  Why,  you  were  not  concerned  in  it?  "  said  Philip. 

"  Xo ;  but  I  was  suspected  and  accused.  I  could  have 
got  off  by  betraying  the  true  culprits,  but  my  friend's 
father  was  in  public  life:  a  stern,  haughty,  old  states- 
man ;  my  friend  was  mortally  afraid  of  him,  —  the  only 
person  he  was  afraid  of.  If  I  had  too  much  insisted  on 
my  innocence,  I  might  have  set  inquiry  on  the  right 
track.  In  fine,  I  was  happy  to  prove  my  friendship  for 
him.  He  shook  me  most  tenderly  by  the  hand  on  part- 
ing, and  promised  never  to  forget  my  generous  devotion. 
I  went  home  in  disgrace :  I  need  not  tell  you  what  my 
father  said  to  me ;  I  do  not  think  he  ever  loved  me  from 
tliat  hour.  Shortly  after  this,  my  uncle,  George  Gaw- 
trey,  the  captain,  returned  from  abroad;  he  took  a  great 
fancy  to  me,  and  I  left  my  father's  house  (which  had 
grown  insufferable)  to  live  with  him.  He  had  been  a 
very  handsome  man,  —  a  gay  spendthrift ;  he  had  got 
through  his  fortune,  and  now  lived  on  his  wits, —  he  was 
a  professed  gamliler.  His  easy  temper,  his  lively  humor, 
fascinated  me;  he  knew  the  world  well,  and,  like  all 
gamblers,  was  generous  when  the  dice  were  lucky, — 
which,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  they  generally  were,  with  a 


272  NIGHT    AND    MOKNING. 

man  wlio  had  no  scruples.  Though  his  practices  were 
a  little  suspected,  they  had  never  been  discovered.  We 
lived  in  an  elegant  apartment,  mixed  familiarly  with  men 
of  various  ranks,  and  enjoyed  life  extremely.  I  brushed 
off  my  college  rust,  and  conceived  a  taste  for  expense. 
I  knew  not  why  it  was,  but  in  my  new  existence  every 
one  was  kind  to  me ;  and  I  had  spirits  that  made  me  wel- 
come everywhere.  I  was  a  scamp,  —  but  a  frolicsome 
scamp,  and  that  is  always  a  popular  character.  As 
yet  I  was  not  dishonest,  but  saw  dishonesty  round  me, 
and  it  seemed  a  very  pleasant,  jolly  mode  of  making 
money ;  and  now  I  again  fell  into  contact  with  the  young 
heir.  My  college  friend  was  as  wild  in  London  as  he 
had  been  at  Cambridge ;  but  the  boy-ruffian,  though 
not  then  twenty  years  of  age,  had  grown  into  the 
man-villain." 

Here  Gawtrey  paused,  and  frowned  darkly. 

"  He  had  great  natural  parts,  this  young  man ;  much 
wit,  readiness,  and  cunning,  and  he  became  very  inti- 
mate Avith  my  uncle.  He  learned  of  him  how  to  play 
the  dice,  and  to  pack  the  cards,  —  he  paid  him  £1000  for 
the  knowledge !  " 

"  How !  a  cheat  ?     You  said  he  was  rich. " 

"  His  father  was  very  rich,  and  he  had  a  liberal  allow- 
ance, but  he  was  very  extravagant;  and  rich  men  love 
gain  as  well  as  poor  men  do!  He  had  no  excuse  but  the 
grand  excuse  of  all  vice,  —  SELFisii>rESS.  Young  as  he 
was,  he  became  the  fashion,  and  he  fattened  upon  the 
plunder  of  his  equals,  who  desired  the  honor  of  his  ac- 
quaintance. Now,  I  had  seen  my  imcle  cheat,  but  I  had 
never  imitated  his  example:  when  the  man  of  fashion 
cheated,  and  made  a  jest  of  his  earnings  and  my  scruples; 
when  I  saw  him  courted,  flattered,  honored,  and  his 
acts  unsuspected,  because  his  connections  embraced  half 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  273 

the  peerage, — the  temptation  grew  strong,  but  I  still  re- 
sisted it.  However,  my  father  always  said  I  was  born  to 
be  a  good-for-nothing,  and  I  could  not  escape  my  destiny. 
And  now  I  suddenly  fell  in  love,  —  you  don't  know  what 
that  is  yet:  so  much  the  better  for  you.  The  girl  was 
beautiful,  and  I  thought  she  loved  me, —  perhaps  she 
did;  but  I  was  too  poor,  so  her  friends  said,  for  mar- 
riage. We  courted,  as  the  saying  is,  in  the  mean- 
while. It  was  my  love  for  her,  my  wish  to  deserve 
her,  that  made  me  iron  against  my  friend's  example. 
I  was  fool  enough  to  speak  to  him  of  Mary,  —  to  pre- 
sent him  to  her;  this  ended  in  her  seduction."  (Again 
Gawtrey  paused,  and  breathed  hard. )  "I  discovered 
the  treachery, —  I  called  out  the  seducer;  he  sneered, 
and  refused  to  fight  the  low-born  adventurer.  I  struck 
him  to  the  earth, —  and  then  we  fought;  I  was  satisfied 
by  a  ball  through  my  side;  but  he,"  added  Gawtrey, 
rubbing  his  hands,  and  with  a  vindictive  chuckle,  — 
"  he  was  a  cripple  for  life !  When  I  recovered,  I  found 
that  my  foe,  whose  sick-chamber  was  crowded  with 
friends  and  comforters,  had  taken  advantage  of  my  ill- 
ness to  ruin  my  reputation.  He,  the  swindler,  accused 
me  of  his  own  crime;  the  equivocal  character  of  my 
uncle  confirmed  the  charge.  Him,  his  own  high-born 
pupil  was  enabled  to  unmask,  and  his  disgrace  was  visited 
on  me.  I  left  my  bed  to  find  my  uncle  (all  disguise 
over)  an  avowed  partner  in  a  hell;  and  myself,  blasted 
alike  in  name,  love,  past,  and  future.  And  then,  Philip, 
then  I  commenced  that  career  which  I  have  trodden 
since, —  the  prince  of  good-fellows  and  good-for-nothings, 
with  ten  thousand  aliases,  and  as  many  strings  to  my 
bow.  Society  cast  me  off  when  I  Avas  innocent.  Egad,  I 
have  had  my  revenge  on  society  since !  —  Ho !  ho ! 
ho!" 

VOL.  I.  —  18 


274  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

The  laugh  of  this  man  had  in  it  a  moral  infection. 
There  was  a  sort  of  glorying  in  its  deep  tone;  it  was 
not  the  holloAV  hysteric  of  shame  and  despair,  —  it  spoke 
a  sanguine  joyousness!  William  Gawtrey  was  a  man 
whose  animal  constitution  had  led  him  to  take  animal 
pleasure  in  all  things;  he  had  enjoyed  the  poisons  he  had 
lived  on. 

"  But  your  father, —  surely  your  father  —  " 

"  My  father, "  interrupted  Gawtrey,  "  refused  me  the 
money  (but  a  small  sum)  that,  once  struck  with  the 
strong  impulse  of  a  sincere  penitence,  I  begged  of  him, 
to  enable  me  to  get  an  honest  living  in  an  humble 
trade.  His  refusal  soured  the  penitence ;  it  gave  me  an 
excuse  for  my  career,  —  ami  conscience  grapples  to  an 
excuse  as  a  drowning  wretch  to  a  straw.  And  yet  this 
hard  father, — this  cautious,  moral,  money-loving  man, 
—  three  months  afterwards,  suffered  a  rogue,  almost  a 
stranger,  to  decoy  him  into  a  speculation  that  promised 
to  bring  him  fifty  per  cent.  He  invested  in  the  traffic  of 
usury  what  had  sufficed  to  save  a  hundred  such  as  I  am 
from  perdition,  and  he  lost  it  all.  It  was  nearly  his 
whole  fortune;  but  he  lives,  and  has  his  luxuries  still. 
He  cannot  speculate,  but  he  can  save ;  he  cared  not  if  I 
starved,  for  he  finds  an  hourly  happiness  in  starving 
himself." 

"  And  your  friend,"  said  Philip,  after  a  pause,  in 
■which  his  young  sympatliics  went  dangerously  with  the 
excuses  for  his  benefactor;  "what  has  become  of  him, 
and  the  poor  girl  ?  " 

"  My  friend  became  a  great  man ;  he  succeeded  to  his 
father's  peerage, —  a  very  ancient  one,  — and  to  a  splen- 
did income.  He  is  living  still.  Well,  you  shall  hear 
about  the  poor  fjlrl !  We  are  told  of  victims  of  seduc- 
tion dying  in  a  workhouse,  or  on  a  dunghill,  penitent, 


NIGHT  AND   MOllNING.  275 

broken-hearted,  and  uncommonly  ragged  and  sentimental : 
it  may  be  a  frequent  case,  but  it  is  not  the  worst.  It  is 
worse,  I  think,  when  the  fair,  penitent,  innocent,  credu- 
lous dupe  becomes  in  her  turn  the  deceiver;  when  slie 
catches  vice  from  the  breath  upon  which  slie  has  hung; 
when  she  ripens  and  mellows  and  rots  away  into 
painted,  blazing,  staring,  wholesale  harlotry;  when  in 
her  turn  she  ruins  warm  youth  with  false  smiles  and 
long  bills ;  and  when  worse  —  worse  than  all  —  when  she 
has  children,  daughters  perhaps,  brought  up  to  the  same 
trade,  cooped,  plumped,  for  some  hoary  lecher,  without 
a  heart  in  their  bosoms,  unless  a  balance  for  weighing 
money  may  be  called  a  heart.  ]\Iary  became  this ;  and  I 
wish  to  Heaven  she  had  rather  died  in  a  hospital!  Her 
lover  polluted  her  soul  as  well  as  her  beauty :  he  found 
her  another  lover  when  he  was  tired  of  her.  When  she 
was  at  the  age  of  thirty-six,  I  met  her  in  Paris,  with  a 
daughter  of  sixteen.  I  was  then  flush  with  money,  fre- 
quenting salons,  and  playing  the  part  of  a  fine  gentleman ; 
she  did  not  knoAV  me  at  first,  and  she  sought  m)'  ac- 
quaintance. For  you  must  know,  my  young  friend," 
said  Gawtrey,  abruptly  breaking  off  the  thread  of  his 
narrative,  "  that  I  am  not  altogether  the  low  dog  you 
might  suppose  in  seeing  me  here.  At  Paris  —  ah  !  you 
don't  know  Paris  —  there  is  a  glorious  ferment  in  society 
in  which  the  dregs  are  often  uppermost.  I  came  here 
at  the  Peace ;  and  here  have  I  resided  the  greater  part 
of  each  year  ever  since.  The  vast  masses  of  energy 
and  life,  broken  up  by  the  great  thaw  of  the  Imperial 
system,  floating  along  the  tide,  are  terrible  icebergs  for 
the  vessel  of  the  state.  Some  think  Napoleonism  over, 
—  its  effects  are  only  begun.  Society  is  shattered  from 
one  end  to  the  other,  and  I  laugh  at  the  little  rivets  by 


276  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

•which  they  think  to  keep  it  together.^  But  to  return: 
Paris,  I  say,  is  the  atmosphere  for  adventurers,  —  new 
faces  and  new  men  are  so  common  here  that  they  excite 
no  impertinent  inquiry,  it  is  so  usual  to  see  fortunes 
made  in  a  day  and  spent  in  a  month ;  except  in  certain 
circles,  there  is  no  walking  round  a  man's  character  to 
spy  out  where  it  wants  piercing!  Some  lean  Greek 
poet  put  lead  in  his  pockets  to  prevent  being  blown 
away :  put  gold  in  your  pockets,  and  at  Paris  you  may 
defy  the  sharpest  wind  in  the  world,  — yea,  even  the 
breath  of  that  old  ^olus.  Scandal.  Well,  then,  I  had 
money  —  no  matter  how  I  came  by  it  —  and  health  and 
gayety ;  and  1  was  well  received  in  the  coteries  that 
exist  in  all  capitals,  but  mostly  m  France,  where  pleas- 
ure is  the  cement  that  joins  many  discordant  atoms :  here 
I  say,  I  met  Mary,  and  her  daughter  by  my  old  friend, 
—  the  daughter  still  innocent,  but,  sac  re  !  in  Avhat  an 
element  of  vice!  We  knew  each  other's  secrets,  Mary 
and  I,  and  kept  them :  she  thought  me  a  greater  knave 
than  I  was,  and  she  intrusted  to  me  her  intention  of  sell- 
ing her  child  to  a  rich  English  marquis.  On  the  other 
liand,  the  poor  girl  confided  to  me  her  horror  of  the 
scenes  she  witnessed  and  the  snares  that  surrounded  her. 
What  do  you  think  jjreserved  her  pure  from  all  danger  1 
Bah !  you  will  never  guess !  It  was  partly  because,  if 
example  corrupts,  it  as  often  deters,  but  principally  be- 
cause she  loved.  A  girl  who  loves  one  man  purely  has 
about  her  an  amulet  which  defies  the  advances  of  the 
profligate.  There  was  a  handsome  young  Italian,  an 
artist,  who   frequented   the   house, —  he   was   the  man. 

'  This  passage  wa.s  written  at  a  period  when  the  dynasty  of 
Louis  Philippe  seemed  the  most  assured,  and  Napoleouism  was 
indeed  considered  extinct. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  277 

I  had  to  choose,   then,  between  mother  and  daughter: 
I  chose  the  last." 

Fhilip  seized  hold  of  Gawtrey's  hand,  grasped  it 
warmly,   and  the  good-for-nothing  continued :  — 

"  Do  you  know  that  I  loved  that  girl  as  well  as  I 
had  ever  loved  the  mother,  though  in  another  way ;  she 
was  what  I  had  fancied  the  mother  to  be,  —  stiU  more  fair, 
more  graceful,  more  winning,  with  a  heart  as  full  of  love 
as  her  mother's  had  been  of  vanity.  I  loved  that  child 
as  if  she  had  been  my  own  daughter ;  I  induced  her  to 
leave  her  mother's  house;  I  secreted  her;  I  saw  her 
married  to  the  man  she  loved, —  I  gave  her  away,  and 
saw  no  more  of  her  for  several  months." 

"  Why  1.  " 

"  Because  I  spent  them  in  prison  !  The  yoimg  people 
could  not  live  upon  air;  I  gave  them  what  I  had,  and, 
in  order  to  do  more,  I  did  something  which  displeased 
the  police.  I  narrowly  escaped  that  time:  but  I  am 
popular,  very  popular,  and  with  plenty  of  witnesses  not 
over-scrupulous,  I  got  off !  When  I  was  released,  I 
would  not  go  to  see  them,  for  my  clothes  were  ragged; 
the  police  still  watched  me,  and  I  would  not  do  them 
harm  in  the  world!  Ay,  poor  wretches!  they  struggled 
so  hard:  he  could  get  very  little  by  his  art,  though,  I 
believe,  he  was  a  cleverish  fellow  at  it,  and  the  money  I 
had  given  them  could  not  last  forever.  They  lived  near 
the  Champs  Elysees,  and  at  night  I  used  to  steal  out  and 
look  at  them  through  the  window.  They  seemed  so 
happy  and  so  handsome  and  so  good;  but  he  looked 
eickly,  and  I  saw  that,  like  all  Italians,  he  languished 
for  his  own  warm  climate.  But  man  is  born  to  act  as 
well  as  to  contemplate, "  pursued  Gawtrey,  changing  his 
tone  into  the  allegro;  "  and  I  was  soon  driven  into  my 
old  ways,  though  in  a  lower  line.     I  went  to  London, 


278  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

just  to  give  my  reputation  an  airing;  and  when  I  re- 
tui'netl,  pretty  flush  again,  the  poor  Itahan  was  dead, 
and  I'anny  was  a  widow  with  one  boy,  and  enceinte 
with  a  second  child.  So  then  I  sought  her  again,  for 
her  mother  had  found  her  out,  and  was  at  her  with  her 
devilish  kindness;  but  Heaven  was  merciful,  and  took 
her  away  from  both  of  us.  She  died  in  giving  birth  to  a 
girl,  and  her  last  words  were  uttered  to  me,  imploring 
me  —  the  adventurer,  the  charlatan,  the  good-for-nothing 
—  to  keep  her  child  from  the  clutches  of  her  own  mother. 
Well,  sir,  I  did  what  I  could  for  both  the  children ;  but 
the  boy  was  consumptive,  like  his  father,  and  sleeps  at 
Pere-la-Chaise.  The  girl  is  here,  —  you  shall  see  her 
some  day.  Poor  Fanny !  if  ever  the  devil  will  let  me,  I 
shall  reform  for  her  sake;  meanwhile,  for  her  sake,  I 
must  get  grist  for  the  mill.  My  story  is  concluded,  for 
I  need  not  tell  you  all  of  my  pranks,- — ^of  all  the  parts  I 
have  played  in  life.  I  have  never  been  a  murderer,  or  a 
burglar,  or  a  highway  robber,  or  what  the  law  calls  a 
thief.  I  can  only  say,  as  I  said  before,  I  have  lived 
upon  my  wits,  and  they  have  been  a  tolerable  capital  on 
the  whole.  I  have  been  an  actor,  a  money-lender,  a 
physician,  a  professor  of  animal  magnetism  {that  was 
lucrative  till  it  went  out  of  fashion,  perhaps  it  will  come 
in  again) ;  I  have  been  a  lawyer,  a  house-agent,  a  dealer 
in  curiosities  and  china ;  I  have  kept  a  hotel ;  I  have  set 
up  a  weekly  newspaper;  I  have  seen  almost  every  city  in 
Europe,  and  made  acquaintance  with  some  of  its  jails; 
but  a  man  who  has  plenty  of  brains  generally  falls  on 
his  legs." 

"  And  your  father  ?  "  said  Philip ;  and  here  he  spoke 
to  Gawtrey  of  the  conversation  he  had  overheard  in  the 
churchyard,  but  on  which  a  scruple  of  natural  delicacy 
had  hitherto  kept  him  silent. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  279 

"  Well,  now, "  said  his  host,  while  a  slight  blush  rose 
to  his  checks,  "  I  will  tell  you,  that  though  to  my  father's 
sternness  and  avarice  I  attribute  many  of  my  faults,  I 
yet  always  had  a  sort  of  love  for  him;  and  when  in  Lon- 
don, I  accidentally  heard  that  he  was  growing  blind, 
and  living  witli  an  artful  old  jade  of  a  housekeeper,  who 
might  send  liini  to  rest  with  a  dose  of  magnesia  the  night 
after  she  had  coaxed  him  to  make  a  will  in  her  favor. 
I  sought  him  out,  and  —  But  you  say  you  heard  what 
passed. " 

"  Yes ;  and  I  heard  him  also  call  you  by  name,  when 
it  wns  too  late,  and  I  saw  the  tears  on  his  cheeks." 

"  Did  you  1  —  will  you  swear  to  that  1  "  exclaimed 
Gawtrey,  with  vehemence ;  then  shading  his  l)row  with 
his  hand,  he  fell  into  a  reverie  that  lasted  some 
moments. 

"  If  anything  happen  to  me,  Philip, "  he  said,  abruptly, 
"  perhaps  he  may  yet  be  a  father  to  poor  Fanny ;  and  if 
he  takes  to  her,  she  will  repay  him  for  whatever  pain  I 
may  perliaps  have  cost  him.  Stop  !  now  I  think  of  it, 
I  will  write  down  his  address  for  you:  never  forget  it, — - 
there !     It  is  time  to  go  to  bed. " 

Gart^trey's  tale  made  a  deep  impression  on  Philip.  He 
was  too  young,  too  inexperienced,  too  much  borne  away 
by  the  passion  of  the  narrator,  to  see  that  Gawtrey  had 
less  cause  to  blame  fate  than  himself.  True,  he  had 
been  unjustly  implicated  in  the  disgrace  of  an  unworthy 
uncle,  but  he  had  lived  with  that  uncle,  though  he 
knew  him  to  be  a  common  cheat:  true,  he  had  been  be- 
trayed by  a  friend,  but  he  had  before  known  that  friend 
to  be  a  man  witliout  principle  or  honor.  But  what  won- 
der that  an  ardent  boy  saw  nothing  of  this, —  saw  only 
the  good  heart  that  had  saved  a  poor  girl  from  vice, 
and   sighed  to  relieve  a  harsh    and   avaricious   parent? 


280  NIGHT   AND   MOIiNING. 

Even  the  hints  that  Gawtrey  miawares  let  fall  of  prac- 
tices scarcely  covered  by  the  jovial  phrase  of  "  a  great 
schoolboy's  scrapes,"  either  escaped  the  notice  of  Philip, 
or  were  charitably  construed  by  him  in  the  compassion 
and  the  ignorance  of  a  young,  hasty,  and  grateful 
heart. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  281 


CHAPTER  IV. 


And  she 's  a  stranger ! 
Women,  —  beware  women. 


MlDDLETOK. 


As  we  love  our  youngest  children  best, 
So  tlie  last  fruit  of  our  affection, 
Wherever  we  bestow  it,  is  most  strong ; 
Since  't  is  indeed  our  latest  harvest-home, 
Last  merriment  fore  winter ! 

Webster  :  Devil's  Law  Case. 

I  would  fain  know  what  kind  of  thing  a  man's  heart  is  1 
I  will  report  it  to  you  :  't  is  a  thing  framed 
With  divers  corners ! 

ROWLET. 

I  HAVE  said  that  Gawtrey's  tale  made  a  deep  impression 
on  Philip:  that  impression  was  increased  by  subsequent 
conversations,  more  frank  even  than  their  talk  had  hith- 
erto been.  There  was  certainly  about  this  man  a  fatal 
charm  which  concealed  his  vices.  It  arose,  perhaps, 
from  the  perfect  combinations  of  his  physical  frame: 
from  a  health  which  made  his  spirits  buoyant  and  hearty 
under  all  circumstances,  and  a  blood  so  fresh,  so  san- 
guine, that  it  could  not  fail  to  keep  the  pores  of  the  heart 
open.  But  he  was  not  the  less  —  for  all  his  kindly  im- 
pulses and  generous  feelings,  and  despite  the  manner  in 
which,  naturally  anxious  to  make  the  least  unfavoraltle 
portrait  of  himself  to  Philip,  he  softened  and  glossed 
over  the  practices  of  his  life  —  a  thorough  and  complete 
rogue,  a  dangerous,  desperate,  reckless  dare-devil.  It 
was  easy  to  see,  when  anything  crossed  him,  by  the 
cloud  on  his  shaggy  brow,  by  the  swelling  of  the  veins 


282  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

on  the  forehead,  by  the  dilation  of  the  broad  nostril,  that 
he  was  one  to  cut  his  way  through  every  obstacle  to  an 
end,  —  choleric,  impetuous,  fierce,  determined.  Such, 
indeed,  were  the  qualities  that  made  him  respected 
among  his  associates,  as  his  more  bland  and  humorous 
ones  made  him  beloved.  He  was,  in  fact,  the  incarnation 
of  that  great  spirit  which  the  laws  of  the  world  raise  up 
against  the  world,  and  by  which  the  world's  injustice, 
on  a  large  scale,  is  awfully  chastised;  on  a  small  scale, 
merely  nibbled  at  and  harassed,  as  the  rat  that  gnaws 
the  hoof  of  the  elephant,  —  the  spirit  which,  on  a  vast 
theatre,  rises  up,  gigantic  and  sublime,  in  the  heroes  of 
war  and  revolution,  in  ]MirabeauR,  Marats,  Napoleons; 
on  a  minor  stage,  it  shows  itself  in  demagogues,  fanatical 
pliiL)sophers,  and  mob  writers;  and  on  the  forbidden 
boards,  before  whose  reeking  lamps  outcasts  sit,  at  once 
audience  and  actors,  it  never  produced  a  knave  more 
consummate  in  his  part,  or  carrying  it  off  with  more 
buskined  dignity,  than  William  Gawtrey.  I  call  him 
by  his  aboriginal  name;  as  for  his  other  appellations, 
Bacchus  himself  had  not  so  many ! 

One  day  a  lady,  richly  dressed,  was  ushered  by  IVIr. 
Birnie  into  the  bureau  of  Mr.  Love,  alias  Gawtrey. 
Philip  was  .seated  by  the  window,  reading,  for  the  first 
time,  the  "  Candide,"  —  that  work,  next  to  "*  Rasselas," 
the  most  hopeless  and  gloomy  of  the  sports  of  genius 
with  mankind.  The  lady  seemed  rather  embarrassed 
when  she  perceived  Mr.  Love  was  not  alone.  She  drew 
back,  and,  drawing  her  veil  still  more  closely  round  her, 
said,  in  French,  — 

"Pardon  me,  I  would  wish  a  private  conversation." 
Philip  ro.se  to  withdraw,  when  the  lady,  observing  him 
with    eyes   whose   lustre   shone   through  the  veil,  said 
gently,— 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  283 

"  Rut,  perliaps,  the  young  gentleman  is  discreet?  " 

"He  is  not  discreet,  he  is  discretion!  —  my  adopted 
son.  You  may  confide  in  him,  —  upon  ray  lionor,  you 
may,  madam!  "  and  Mr.  Love  placed  his  hand  on  his 
heart. 

"  He  is  very  young,"  said  the  lady,  in  a  tone  of  invol- 
untary compassion,  as,  with  a  very  white  hand,  she  un- 
clasped the  buckle  of  her  cloak. 

"  He  can  the  better  understand  the  curse  of  celibacy," 
returned  Mr.  Love,  smiling. 

The  lady  lifted  part  of  her  veil,  and  discovered  a 
handsome  mouth,  and  a  set  of  small,  white  teeth;  for 
she,  too,  smiled,  tliough  gravely,  as  she  turned  to  Mor- 
ton, and  said,  — 

"  You  seem,  sir,  more  fitted  to  be  a  votary  of  the 
temple  than  one  of  its  officers.  However,  ^Monsieur 
Love,  let  there  be  no  mistake  between  us;  I  do  not  come 
here  to  form  a  marriage,  but  to  prevent  one.  I  under- 
stand that  MonsieiTr  the  Vicomte  de  Vaudemont  has 
called  into  request  your  services,  I  am  one  of  the 
vicomte's  family;  we  are  all  anxious  that  he  should  not 
contract  an  engagement  of  the  strange,  and,  pardon  me, 
unbecoming  character  which  must  stamp  a  union  formed 
at  a  public  office." 

"  I  assure  you,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Love,  with  dignity, 
"  that  we  have  contributed  to  the  very  first —  " 

"  Mon  Dien!  "  interrupted  the  lady,  with  much  im- 
patience, "spare  me  a  eulogy  on  your  establishment:  I 
have  no  doubt  it  is  very  respectable ;  and  for  grisettes 
and  epiders  may  do  extremely  well.  But  the  vicomte 
is  a  man  of  birth  and  connections.  In  a  word,  what  he 
contemplates  is  preposterous.  I  know  not  what  fee 
Monsieur  Love  expects;  but  if  he  contrive  to  amuse 
Monsieur  de  Vaudemont,  and  to  frustrate  every  connec- 


2S4  NIGHT    AND   MORNING. 

tion  he  proposes  to  form,  that  fee,  whatever  it  may  be, 
shall  be  doubled.      Do  you  understand  me  ?  " 

"  Perfectly,  madam;  yet  it  is  not  your  oifer  that  would 
bias  me,  but  the  desire  to  oblige  so  charming  a  lady." 

"  It  is  agreed  then  1  "  said  the  lady,  carelessly  ;  and  as 
she  spoke,  she  again  glanced  at  Philip. 

"If  madame  will  call  again,  I  will  inform  her  of  my 
plans,"  said  Mr.  Love. 

"Yes;  I  will  call  again.  Good-morning!"  As  she 
rose  and  passed  Philip,  she  wholly  put  aside  her  veil, 
and  looked  at  him  with  a  gaze,  entirely  free  from  co- 
quetry, but  curious,  searching,  and  perhaps  admiring,  — 
the  look  that  an  artist  may  give  to  a  picture  that  seems 
of  more  value  than  the  place  where  he  finds  it  would 
seem  to  indicate.  The  countenance  of  the  lady  herself 
was  fair  and  noble,  and  Philip  felt  a  strange  thrill  at 
his  heart,  as,  with  a  slight  inclination  of  her  head,  she 
turned  from  the  room. 

"  Ah!  "  said  Gawtrey,  laughing,  "  this  is  not  the  first 
time  I  have  been  paid  by  relations  to  break  off  the 
marriages  I  had  formed.  Egad!  if  one  could  open  a 
bureau  to  make  married  people  single,  one  would  soon 
be  a  Croesus!  Well,  then,  this  decides  me  to  complete  the 
nnion  between  Monsieur  Goupille  and  Mademoiselle  de 
Courval.  I  had  balanced  a  little  hitherto  between  the 
epicier  and  the  vicomte.  Now  I  will  conclude  mat- 
ters. Do  you  know,  Phil,  1  think  you  have  made  a 
conquest  ?  " 

"  Pooh!  "  said  Philip,  coloring. 

In  effect,  that  very  evening  Mr.  Love  saw  both  the 
epicier  and  Adele,  and  fixed  the  marriage-day.  As 
Monsieur  Goupille  was  a  person  of  great  distinction  in 
thn  Faubourg,  this  wedding  was  one  upon  which  Mr. 
JjQve  congratulated  himself  greatly ;  and  he  cheerfully 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING,  285 

accepted  an  invitation  for  himself  and  his  partners  to 
honor  the  noces  with  their  presence. 

A  night  or  two  before  the  day  fixed  for  the  marriage 
of  Monsieur  Goupille  and  the  aristocratic  Adele,  when 
Mr.  Birnie  had  retired,  Gawtrey  made  his  usual  prepara- 
tions for  enjoying  himself.  But  this  time  the  cigar  and 
the  punch  seemed  to  fail  of  their  effect.  Gawtrey  re- 
mained moody  and  silent;  and  Morton  was  thinking  of 
the  bright  eyes  of  the  lady  who  was  so  much  interested 
against  the  amours  of  the  Vicomte  de  Vaudemont. 

At  last  Gawtrey  broke  silence. 

"  My  young  friend,"  said  he,  "  I  told  you  of  my  little 
protegee  ;  I  have  been  buying  toys  for  her  this  morning; 
she  is  a  beautiful  creature:  to-morrow  is  her  birthday, 
—  she  will  then  be  six  years  old.  But  —  but,"  —  here 
Gawtrey  sighed, — "I  fear  she  is  not  all  right  here," 
and  he  touched  his  forehead. 

"I  should  like  much  to  see  her,"  said  Philip,  not 
noticing  the  latter  remark. 

"  And  you  shall,  —  you  shall  come  with  me  to-morrow. 
Heigho!  I  should  not  like  to  die,  for  her  sake!  " 

"  Does  her  wretched  relation  attempt  to  regain  her  ?  " 

"  Her  relation !  No ;  she  is  no  more,  —  she  died  about 
two  years  since!  Poor  Marj''!  I  —  well,  this  is  folly. 
But  Fanny  is  at  present  in  a  convent;  they  are  all  kind 
to  her,  but  then  I  pay  well.  If  I  were  dead,  and  the  pay 
stopped,  —  again  I  ask,  what  would  become  of  her,  un- 
less, as  I  before  said,  my  father  —  " 

"  But  you  are  making  a  fortune  now  1  " 

"  If  this  lasts,  —  yes ;  but  I  live  in  fear,  —  the  police 
of  this  cursed  city  are  lynx-eyed :  however,  that  is  the 
bright  side  of  the  question. " 

"  Why  not  have  the  child  with  you,  since  you  love 
her  so  much  ?     She  would  be  a  great  comfort  to  you. " 


286  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  Is  this  a  place  for  a  child,  —  a  girl  1  "  said  Gawtrey, 
stamping  his  foot  impatiently.  "  I  should  go  mad  if  I 
6aw  that  villanous  deadman's  eye  bent  upon  her!  " 

"  You  speak  of  Birnie.     How  can  you  endure  him  ?  " 

"  When  you  are  my  age  you  will  know  why  we  endure 
what  we  dread,  —  why  we  make  friends  of  those  who 
else  would  be  most  horrible  foes:  no,  no,  — nothing  can 
deliver  me  of  this  man  but  death.  And  —  and,"  added 
Gawtrey,  turning  pale,  "  I  cannot  murder  a  man  who 
eats  my  bread.  There  are  stronger  ties,  my  lad,  than 
aflfection,  that  bind  men,  like  galley-slaves,  together. 
He  who  can  hang  you  puts  the  halter  round  your  neck 
and  leads  you  by  it  like  a  dog." 

A  shudder  came  over  the  young  listener.  And  what 
dark  secrets,  known  only  to  those  two,  had  bound,  to  a 
man  seemingly  his  subordinate  and  tool,  the  strong  will 
and  resolute  temper  of  William  Gawtrey  ? 

"But,  begone,  dull  care!"  exclaimed  Gawtrey,  rous- 
ing himself.  "  And,  after  all,  Birnie  is  a  useful  fellow, 
and  dare  no  more  turn  against  me  than  I  against  him ! 
Why  don't  you  drink  more  ? 

"  '  Oh  1  have  you  e'er  heard  of  the  famed  Captain  Wattle  ? '  " 

and  Gawtrey  broke  out  into  a  loud  Bacchanalian  hymn, 
in  which  Philip  could  find  no  mirth,  and  from  which 
the  songster  suddenly  paused  to  exclaim,  — 

"  Mind  you  say  nothing  about  Fanny  to  Birnie :  my 
secrets  with  him  are  not  of  that  nature.  He  could  not 
hurt  her,  poor  lamb!  it  is  true,  — at  least  as  far  as  I  can 
foresee.  But  one  can  never  feel  too  sure  of  one's  lamb, 
if  one  once  introduces  it  to  the  butcher!  " 

The  next  day  being  Sunday,  the  bureau  was  closed, 
and  Philip  and  Gawtrey  repaired  to  the  convent.  It 
was  a  dismal-looking  place  as  to  the  exterior;  but  within, 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  287 

there  was  a  large  garden,  well  kept,  and,  notwithstanding 
tlie  winter,  it  seemed  fair  and  refreshing  compared  with 
the  polluted  streets.  The  window  of  the  room  into 
which  they  were  shown  looked  upon  the  green  sward, 
with  walls  covered  with  ivy  at  the  farther  end.  And 
Philip's  own  childhood  came  back  to  him  as  he  gazed 
on  the  quiet  of  the  lonely  place. 

The  door  opened;  an  infant  voice  was  heard,  —  a  voice 
of  glee,  of  rapture;  and  a  child,  light  and  beautiful  as  a 
fairy,  bounded  to  Gawtrey's  breast. 

Nestling  there,  she  kissed  his  face,  his  hands,  his 
clothes,  with  a  passion  that  did  not  seem  to  belong  to  her 
age,  laughing  and  sobbing  almost  at  a  breath. 

On  his  part,  Gawtrey  appeared  equally  affected ;  lie 
stroked  down  her  hair  with  his  huge  hand,  calling  her 
all  manner  of  pet  names,  in  a  tremulous  voice  that 
vainly  struggled  to  be  gay. 

At  length  he  took  the  toys  he  had  brought  with  him 
from  his  capacious  pockets,  and  strewing  them  on  the 
floor,  fairly  stretched  his  vast  bulk  along;  while  the 
child  tumbled  over  him,  sometimes  grasping  at  the  toys, 
and  then  again  returning  to  his  bosom,  and  laying  her 
head  there,  looked  up  quietly  into  his  eyes,  as  if  the  joy 
were  too  much  for  her. 

Morton,  unheeded  by  both,  stood  by  with  folded  arms. 
He  thought  of  his  lost  and  ungrateful  brother,  and 
muttered  to  himself,  — 

"  Fool!  when  she  is  older,  she  will  forsake  him!  " 

Fanny  betra^'ed  in  her  face  the  Italian  origin  of  her 
father.  She  had  that  exceeding  richness  of  complexion 
which,  though  not  common  even  in  Italy,  is  only  to  be 
found  in  the  daughters  of  that  land,  and  which  harmo- 
nized well  with  the  purple  lustre  of  her  hair,  and  the 
full,  clear  iris   of   the   dark  eyes.     Never  were  parted 


288  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

cherries  brighter  than  her  dewy  lips ;  and  the  color  of 
the  open  neck  and  the  rounded  arms  was  of  a  whiteness 
still  more  dazzling,  from  the  darkness  of  the  hair  and  the 
carnation  of  the  glowing  cheek. 

Suddenly  Fanny  started  from  Gawtrey's  arms,  and 
running  up  to  Morton,  gazed  at  him  wistfully,  and  said, 
in  French,  — 

"  Who  are  you  ?  Do  you  come  from  the  moon  1  —  I 
think  you  do."  Then  stopping  abruptly,  she  broke  into 
a  Averse  of  a  nursery-song,  which  she  chanted  with  a 
low,  listless  tone,  as  if  she  were  not  conscious  of  the 
sense.  As  she  thus  sung,  Morton  looking  at  her,  felt  a 
strange  and  painful  doubt  seize  him.  The  child's  eyes, 
though  soft,  were  so  vacant  in  their  gaze. 

"  And  why  do  I  come  from  the  moon  ?  "  said  he. 

"Because  you  look  sad  and  cross.  I  don't  like  you, 
—  I  don't  like  the  moon,  it  gives  me  a  pain  here!  "  and 
she  put  her  hand  to  her  temples.  "  Have  you  got  any- 
thing for  Fanny,  —  poor,  poor  Fanny  1  "  and,  dwelling  on 
the  epithet,  she  shook  her  head  movirnfull3\ 

"  You  are  rich,  Fanny,  with  all  those  toys." 

"  Am  I  ?  —  everybody  calls  me  poor  Fanny,  —  every- 
body but  papa ;  "  and  she  ran  again  to  Gawtrey ,  and 
laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

"  She  calls  me  papa!  "  said  Gawtrey,  kissing  her; 
"you  hear  it?     Bless  her!  " 

"And  you  never  kiss  any  one  but  Fanny,  —  you  have 
no  other  little  girl?"  said  the  child,  earnestly,  and 
with  a  look  less  vacant  than  that  which  had  saddened 
IVIorton. 

"No  other;  no,  — nothing  under  heaven,  and  perhaps 
above  it,  but  you!  "  and  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms. 
"  But,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  —  "  but  mind  me,  Fanny, 
you  must  like  this  gentleman.     He  will  be  always  good 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  289 

to  you :  and  he  had  a  little  brother  whom  he  was  as  fond 
of  as  I  am  of  you." 

"  No,  I  won't  like  him,  —  I  won't  like  anybody  l)ut 
you  and  my  sister!  " 

"  Sister!  —  who  is  your  sister?  " 

The  child's  face  relapsed  into  an  expression  almost  of 
idiocy.  "I  don't  know,  —  I  never  saw  her.  I  hear 
her  sometimes,  but  I  don't  understand  what  she  says. 
Hush !  —  come  here !  "  and  she  stole  to  the  window  on 
tiptoe.      Gawtrey  followed  and  looked  out. 

"  Do  you  hear  her,  now  1  "  said  Fanny.  "  What  does 
she  say  ?  " 

As  the  girl  spoke,  some  bird  among  the  evergreens 
uttered  a  shrill,  plaintive  cry,  rather  than  song,  —  a 
sound  which  the  thrush  occasionally  makes  in  the  win- 
ter, and  which  seems  to  express  something  of  fear  and 
pain  and  impatience. 

"  What  does  she  say  ?  —  can  you  tell  me  1  "  asked  the 
child. 

"  l*ooh !  that  is  a  bird ;  why  do  you  call  it  your 
sister  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know !  —  because  it  is  —  because  it  —  because 
—  I  don't  know  — is  it  not  in  pain  1  Do  something  for 
it,  papa!  " 

Gawtrey  glanced  at  Morton,  whose  face  betokened  his 
deep  pity,  and  creeping  up  to  him,  whispered, — 

"  Do  you  think  she  is  really  touched  here  ?  No,  no ; 
she  will  outgrow  it,  —  I  am  sure  she  will  I  " 

Morton  sighed. 

Fanny  by  this  time  had  again  seated  herself  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  and  arranged  her  toys,  but  without 
seeming  to  take  pleasure  in  them. 

At  last  Gawtrey  was  obliged  to  depart.  The  lay 
sister  who  had  charge  of  Fanny  was  summoned  into  the 

VOL.  I.  — 19 


290  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

parlor,  and  then  the  child's  manner  entirely  changed: 
her  face  grew  purple,  —  she  sobbed  with  as  much  anger 
as  grief.  "  She  would  not  leave  papa;  she  would  not 
go,  that  she  would  not!  " 

"It  is  always  so,"  whispered  Gawtrey  to  Morton, 
in  an  abashed  and  apologetic  voice.  "  It  is  so  difficult 
to  get  away  from  her.  Just  go  and  talk  with  her  while 
I  steal  out." 

Morton  went  to  her,  as  she  struggled  with  the  patient, 
good-natured  sister,  and  began  to  soothe  and  caress  her, 
till  she  turned  on  him  her  large  humid  eyes,  and  said, 
mournfully,  — 

"  Ta  es  mediant,  tu.     Poor  Fanny!  " 

"  But  this  pretty  doll  —  "  began  the  sister. 

The  child  looked  at  it  joylessly,  — 

"  And  papa  is  going  to  die !  " 

"  Whenever  monsieur  goes,"  whispered  the  nun,  "  she 
always  says  that  he  is  dead,  and  cries  herself  quietly  to 
sleep;  when  monsieur  returns,  she  says  he  is  come  to 
life  again.  Some  one,  I  suppose,  once  talked  to  her 
about  death;  and  she  thinks  when  she  loses  sight  of 
any  one,  that  that  is  death." 

"  Poor  child!  "  said  Morton,  with  a  trembling  voice. 

The  child  looked  up,  smiled,  stroked  his  cheek  with 
her  little  hand,  and  said,  — 

"  Thank  you!  Yes!  — poor  Fanny!  Ah,  he  is  going 
—  see !  —  let  me  go  too,  —  tu  es  mechant. " 

"But,"  said  Morton,  detaining  her  gently,  "do  you 
know  that  you  give  him  pain  ?  —  you  make  him  cry  by 
showing  pain  yourself.     Don't  make  him  so  sad!  " 

The  child  seemed  struck,  hung  down  her  head  for  a 
moment,  as  if  in  thought,  and  then,  jumping  from 
Morton's  lap,  ran  to  Gawtrey,  put  up  her  pouting  lipa 
and  said,  — 


NIGHT   AND   MOliNING.  291 

"  One  kiss  more!  " 

Gawtrey  kissed  her,  and  turned  away  his  head. 

"  Fanny  is  a  good  girl ;  "  and  Fanny,  as  she  spoke, 
went  back  to  Morton,  and  put  her  little  fingers  into  her 
eyes,  as  if  either  to  shut  out  Gawtrey's  retreat  from  her 
sight,  or  to  press  back  her  tears. 

"  Give  me  the  doll  now,  sister  Marie." 

Morton  smiled  and  sighed,  placed  the  child,  who 
struggled  no  more,  in  the  nun's  arms,  and  left  the  room; 
but  as  he  closed  the  door,  he  looked  back,  and  saw  that 
Fanny  had  escaped  from  the  sister,  thrown  herself  on 
the  floor,  and  was  crying,  but  not  loud. 

"  Is  she  not  a  little  darling?  "  said  Gawtrey,  as  they 
gained  the  street. 

"  She  is,  indeed,  a  most  beautiful  child!  " 

"  And  you  will  love  her  if  I  leave  her  penniless  ?  "  said 
Gawtrey,  abruptly.  "  It  was  your  love  for  your  mother 
and  your  brother  that  made  me  like  you  from  the  first. 
Ay,"  continued  Gawtrey,  in  a  tone  of  great  earnestness, 
—  "  ay,  and  whatever  may  happen  to  me,  I  will  strive 
and  keep  you,  my  poor  lad,  harmless;  and  what  is  better, 
innocent,  even  of  such  matters  as  sit  light  enough  on  my 
own  well-seasoned  conscience.  In  turn,  if  ever  you 
have  the  power,  be  good  to  her,  — yes,  be  good  to  her! 
and  I  won't  say  a  harsh  word  to  you  if  ever  you  like  to 
turn  king's  evidence  against  myself." 

"  Gawtrey !  "  said  Morton,  reproachfully ,  and  almost 
fiercely. 

"Ball!  —  such  things  are !  But  tell  me  honestly,  do 
you  think  she  is  very  strange,  —  very  deficient?  " 

"  I  have  not  seen  enough  of  her  to  judge,"  answered 
INIorton,  evasively. 

"She  is  so  changeful,"  persisted  Gawtrey;  "some- 
times you   would   say  that  she  was  above  her  age,  she 


292  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

comes  out  with  such  thoughtful,  clever  things;  then, 
the  next  moment,  she  throws  me  into  despair.  These 
nuns  are  very  skilful  in  education;  at  least,  they  are 
said  to  he  so.  The  doctors  give  me  hope,  too;  you  see 
her  poor  mother  aw.o  very  unhappy  at  the  time  of  her 
hirth, — delirious,  indeed;  that  may  account  for  it.  I 
often  fancy  that  it  is  the  constant  excitement  which  her 
state  occasions  me,  that  makes  me  love  her  so  much;  you 
see  she  is  one  who  can  never  shift  for  herself.  I  Tnust 
get  money  for  her;  I  have  left  a  little  already  with  the 
superior,  and  I  would  not  touch  it  to  save  myself  from 
famine!  Tf  she  has  money,  people  will  he  kind  enough 
to  her.  And  then,"  continued  Gawtrey,  "  you  must  per- 
ceive that  she  loves  nothing  in  the  world  but  me,  —  me, 
whom  nobody  else  loves!  Well  —  well,  now  to  the 
shop  again!  " 

On  returning  home,  the  bonne  informed  them  that 
a  lady  had  called,  and  asked  both  for  Monsieur  Love 
and  the  young  gentleman,  and  seemed  much  chagrined 
at  missing  both.  By  the  description,  Morton  guessed 
she  was  the  fair  incognita,  and  felt  disappointed  at  hav- 
ing lost  the  interview. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  293 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  cursed  carle  was  at  his  wonted  trade, 
StiU  tempting  heedless  men  into  his  snare, 
In  witching  wise,  as  I  before  have  said ; 
But  when  he  saw,  in  goodly  gear  arrayed, 
The  grave  majestic  knight  approaching  nigh, 
His  countenance  fell. 

Thomson:  Castle  of  Indolence. 

The  morning  rose  that  was  to  i\nite  Monsieur  Goupille 
with  Mademoiselle  Adele  de  Courval.  The  ceremony 
was  performed,  and  bride  and  bridegroom  went  through 
that  trying  ordeal  with  becoming  gravity.  Only  the 
elegant  Ad^le  seemed  more  unaffectedly  agitated  than 
Mr.  Love  could  well  account  for ;  she  was  very  nervous 
in  church,  and  more  often  turned  her  eyes  to  the  door 
than  to  the  altar.  Perhaps  she  wanted  to  run  away ; 
but  it  was  either  too  late  or  too  early  for  that  proceeding. 
The  rite  performed,  the  happy  pair  and  their  friends 
adjourned  to  the  Cadran  Bleu,  that  restaurant  so 
celebrated  in  the  festivities  of  the  good  citizens  of  Paris. 
Here  Mr.  Love  had  ordered,  at  the  ejjtcier's  expense,  a 
most  tasteful  entertainment. 

"  Sacre !  but  you  have  not  played  the  economist. 
Monsieur  Lofe,"  said  Monsieur  Goupille,  rather  queru- 
lously, as  he  glanced  at  the  long  room  adorned  with 
artificial  flowers,  and  the  table  a  cinquante  converts. 

"  Bah, "  replied  Mr.  Love,  "  you  can  retrench  after- 
wards.    Think  of  the  fortune  she  brought  you. " 

"  It  is  a  pretty  sum,  certainly,"  said  Monsieur  Goupille, 
"  and  the  notary  is  perfectly  satisfied. " 


294  NIGtIT   AND   MORNING. 

"  Til  ere  is  not  a  marriage  in  Paris  that  does  me  more 
credit, "  said  Mr.  Love ;  and  he  marched  off  to  receive 
tlic  compliments  and  congratulations  that  awaited  him 
among  such  of  the  gviests  as  were  aware  of  his  good 
offices.  The  Vicomte  de  Vaudemont  was  of  course  not 
present.  He  had  not  been  near  Mr.  Love  since  Adele 
had  accepted  the  epicler.  But  Madame  Beavor,  in  a 
white  bonnet  lined  with  lilac,  Avas  hanging,  sentimentally, 
on  the  arm  of  the  Pole,  who  looked  very  grand  with  his 
white  favor;  and  Mr.  Higgins  had  been  introduced,  by 
Mr.  Love,  to  a  little  dark  Creole,  who  wore  paste 
diamonds,  and  had  very  languishing  eyes;  so  that  Mr. 
Love's  heart  might  well  swell  with  satisfaction  at  the 
prospect  of  the  various  blisses  to  come,  which  might  owe 
their  origin  to  his  benevolence.  In  fact,  that  archpriest 
of  the  Temple  of  Hymen  was  never  more  great  than  he 
was  that  day;  never  did  his  establishment  seem  more 
solid,  his  reputation  more  popular,  or  his  fortune  more 
sure.     He  was  the  life  of  the  party. 

The  bunrpiet  over,  the  revellers  prepared  for  a  dance. 
Monsieur  Goupille,  in  tights  still  tighter  than  he  usually 
wore,  and  of  a  rich  nankeen,  quite  new,  with  striped  silk 
stockings,  opened  the  ball  with  the  lady  of  a  rich 
jjutissier  in  the  same  Faubourg;  Mr.  Love  took  out  the 
bride.  The  evening  advanced;  and,  after  several  other 
dances  of  ceremony,  Monsicixr  Goupille  conceived  himself 
entitled  to  dedicate  one  to  connubial  affection.  A 
country-dance  was  called,  and  the  eplcier  claimed  the 
fair  hand  of  the  gentle  Adele.  About  this  time  two 
persons,  not  hitherto  perceived,  had  quietly  entered  the 
room,  and,  standing  near  the  doorway,  seemed  examining 
the  dancers,  as  if  in  search  for  some  one.  They  bobbed 
their  heads  up  and  down,  to  and  fro,  —  now  stooped, 
now  stood  on  tiptoe.     The  one  was  a  tall,  large-whiskered, 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  295 

fair-haired  man;  the  other,  a  little,  thin,  neatly-dressed 
person,  who  kept  his  hand  on  the  arm  of  his  companion, 
and  whispered  to  him  from  time  to  time.  The  whiskered 
gentleman  replied  in  a  guttural  tone,  which  proclaimed 
his  origin  to  be  German.  The  busy  dancers  did  not  per- 
ceive the  strangers.  The  bystanders  did,  and  a  hum  of 
curiosity  circled  round ;  who  could  they  be  ?  —  who  had 
invited  them  1  —  they  were  new  faces  in  the  Faubourg,  — 
perhaps  relations  to  Adele  ? 

In  high  delight  the  fair  bride  was  skipping  down  the 
middle,  while  Monsieur  Goupille,  wiping  his  forehead 
with  care,  admired  her  agility;  when,  lo  and  behold  ! 
the  whiskered  gentleman  I  have  described  abruptly 
advanced  from  his  companion,  and  cried,  — 

"  La  viola  !  —  sacre  toiinerre  !  " 

At  that  voice,  —  at  that  apparition,  the  bride  halted : 
so  suddenly,  indeed,  that  she  had  not  time  to  put  doAvn 
both  feet,  but  remained  with  one  high  in  the  air,  while 
the  other  sustained  itself  on  the  light  fantastic  toe.  The 
company  naturally  imagined  this  to  be  an  operatic  flourish, 
which  called  for  approbation.  Monsieur  Love,  who  was 
thundering  down  behind  her,  cried  "  Bravo  !  "  and  as 
the  well-grown  gentleman  had  to  make  a  sweep  to  avoid 
disturbing  her  equilibrium,  he  came  full  against  the 
whiskered  stranger,  and  sent  him  off  as  a  bat  sends 
a  ball. 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  "  cried  Monsieur  Goupille.  "  Ma  douce 
amie,  —  she  has  fainted  away  !  "  And,  indeed,  Adele 
had  no  sooner  recovered  her  balance  than  she  resigned 
it  once  more  into  the  arms  of  the  startled  Pole,  who  Avas 
happily  at  hand. 

In  the  mean  time  the  German  stranger,  who  had 
saved  himself  from  falling  by  coming  with  his  full  force 
upon  the   toes  of   Mr.  Higgins,   again  advanced  to  the 


296  NIGHT   AND    MOENING. 

spot,   and,    rudely  seizing   the   fair   bride   by  the   arm, 
exclaimed,  — 

"  No  sham  if  you  please,  madame,  —  speak  !  What 
the  devil  have  you  done  with  the  money  1  " 

"  Really,  sir, "  said  Monsieur  Goupille,  drawing  up 
his  cravat,  "  this  is  very  extraordinary  conduct  !  What 
have  you  got  to  say  to  this  lady's  money  1  —  it  is  mi/ 
money  now,  sir  !  " 

"  Oho  !  it  is,  is  it  ?  we  '11  soon  see  that.  Approchez 
done,  Monsieur  Favart,  faites  voire  devoir."  ^ 

At  these  words  the  small  companion  of  the  stranger 
slowly  sauntered  to  the  spot,  while  at  the  sound  of  his 
name  and  the  tread  of  his  step,  the  throng  gave  way  to  the 
right  and  left.  For  Monsieur  Favart  was  one  of  the  most 
renowned  chiefs  of  the  great  Parisian  police,  —  a  man 
worthy  to  be  the  contemporary  of  the  illustrious  Vidocq. 

"  Calmez  vous,  messieurs  ;  do  not  be  alarmed,  ladies, " 
said  this  gentleman,  in  the  mildest  of  all  human  voices; 
and  certainly  no  oil  dropped  on  the  waters  ever  produced 
so  tranquillizing  an  effect  as  that  small,  feeble,  gentle 
tenor.  The  Pole  in  especial,  who  was  holding  the  fair 
bride  with  both  his  arms,  shook  all  over,  and  seemed 
about  to  let  his  burden  gradually  slide  to  the  floor,  when 
Monsieur  Favart,  looking  at  him  with  a  benevolent 
smile,  said, — 

"  Aha,  mon  brave  !  c'est  toi.  Restez  done.  Restez, 
tenant  toujours  la  dame  !  "  ^ 

The  Pole,  thus  condemned  in  the  French  idiom, 
"  alvmys  to  hold  the  dame, "  mechanically  raised  the 
arras  he  had  previously  dejected,  and  the  police-officer, 
with  an  approving  nod  of  the  head,  said, — 

1  Approach  then,  Monsieur  Favart,  and  do  your  duty. 

2  Alia,  my   fine   fellow!   it's  you.     Stay,  then.     Stay,   always 
holding  the  dame. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  297 

"  Bon  !  ne  hoiigez  point,  c'est  ga  !  "  ^ 

Monsieur  Goupille,  in  equal  surprise  and  indignation 
to  see  his  better  half  thus  consigned,  without  any  care 
to  his  own  marital  feelings,  to  the  arms  of  another,  was 
about  to  snatch  her  from  the  Pole,  when  Monsieur 
l^avart,  touching  him  on  the  breast  with  his  little  finger, 
said  in  the  suavest  manner, — ■ 

"  Hon  bourgeois,  meddle  not  with  what  does  not 
concern  you!  " 

"With  what  does  not  concern  me!"  repeated  Mon- 
sieur Goupille,  drawing  himself  up  to  so  great  a  stretch 
that  he  seemed  pulling  off  his  tights  the  wrong  way. 
"  Explain  yourself,  if  you  please.     This  lady  is  my  wife  !  " 

"Say  that  again, —  that's  all!"  cried  the  whiskered 
stranger,  in  most  horrible  French,  and  with  a  furious 
grimace,  as  he  shook  both  his  fists  just  under  the  nose 
of  the  epicier. 

"  Say  it  again,  sir, "  said  Monsieur  Goupille,  by  no 
means  daunted ;  "  and  why  should  not  I  say  it  again  ? 
That  lady  is  my  wife !  " 

"You  lie!  —  she  is  mine/"  cried  the  German;  and, 
bending  down,  he  caught  the  fair  Adele  from  the  Pole 
with  as  little  ceremony  as  if  she  had  never  had  a  great- 
grandfather a  marquis,  and  giving  her  a  shake  that 
might  have  roused   the  dead,   thundered  out, — 

"  Speak !    Madame  Bihl !    Are  you  my  wife  or  not  1  " 

"  Monstre  !  "  murmured  Adele,  opening  her  eyes. 

"  There :  j'^ou  hear,  —  she  owns  me !  "  said  the  Ger- 
man, appealing  to  the  company  with  a  triumphant  air. 

"  C^est  vrai!  "  said  the  soft  voice  of  the  policeman. 
"  And  now,  pray  don't  let  us  disturb  your  amusements 
any  longer.  We  have  a  fiacre  at  the  door.  Remove 
your  lady,  Monsieur  Bihl." 

1  Good  !  don't  stir,  —  that 's  it. 


298  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  ]\ronsie\ir  Lofe !  —  Monsienr  Lofe !  "  cried,  or  rather 
screeched,  tlie  epicier,  dartiiiff  across  the  room,  and  seiz- 
ing the  chef  by  the  tail  of  his  coat,  just  as  he  was  half- 
way through  tlie  door,  "Come  hack!  Quelle  niauvaise 
plaisanterie  me  faites-vons  ici  ?  ^  Did  you  not  tell  me 
that  lady  was  single  1  Am  I  married  or  not  1  Do  I  stand 
on  my  head  or  my  heels  ?  " 

"  Hush  —  hush !  mon  bon  honrgeois  !  "  whispered  Mr. 
Love,  "  all  shall  he  explained  to-morrow!  " 

"  Wlio  is  this  gentleman  ?  "  asked  Monsieur  Favart, 
approaching  Mr.  Love,  who,  seeing  himself  in  for  it, 
suddenly  jerked  off  the  eplcier,  thrust  his  hands  down 
into  his  breeclies-pockets,  buried  his  chin  in  his  cravat, 
elevated  his  eyebrows,  screwed  in  his  eyes,  and  puffed 
out  his  cheeks,  so  tliat  the  astonished  Monsieur  Goupille 
really  thought  himself  bewitched,  and  literally  did  not 
recognize  the  face  of  the  match-maker. 

"  Wlio  is  this  gentleman  1 "  repeated  the  little  officer, 
standing  beside,  or  rather  below,  Mr.  Love,  and  looking 
80  diminutive  by  the  contrast  that  you  might  have  fancied 
that  the  priest  of  Hymen  had  only  to  breathe  to  blow 
him  away. 

"  Wlio  should  he  be,  monsieur  1  "  cried,  with  great  pert- 
ness,  Madame  Rosalie  Caumartin,  ceming  to  the  relief 
Avith  the  generosity  of  her  sex.  "  This  is  Monsieur  Ijofe, 
—  Anglais  celehre.  AVhat  have  you  to  say  against 
him  ?  " 

"  He  has  got  five  hundred  francs  of  mine !  "  cried  the 
epicier. 

The  policeman  scanned  Mr.  Love  with  great  attention. 
"  So  you  are  in  Paris  again  1  Hein !  —  voiis  jouez 
toujours  voire  role  !  "  "^ 

'  What  scurvy  trick  is  this  you  're  playing  me  ? 
2  You  're  always  actiug  your  part. 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  299 

"  Ma  foW  said  Mr.  Love,  boldly;  "I  don't  undcr- 
etand  what  monsieur  means;  my  character  is  well 
known :  go  and  inquire  it  in  London ;  ask  the  Secretary 
of  Foreign  Affairs  what  is  said  of  me;  inquire  of  my 
Ambassador;  demand  of  my  —  " 

"  Voire  j)asseport,  monsieur  ?  " 

"  It  is  at  home.  A  gentleman  does  not  carry  his  pass- 
port in  his  pocket  when  he  goes  to  a  ball  I  " 

"  I  will  call  and  see  it, —  au  revoir  !  Take  my  advice 
and  leave  Paris;  I  think  I  have  seen  you  somewhere!  " 

"  Yet  I  have  never  had  the  honor  to  marry  monsieur !  " 
said  Mr.  Love,  Avith  a  polite  bow. 

In  return  for  his  joke  the  policeman  gave  Mr.  Love 
one  look, —  it  was  a  quiet  look,  very  quiet;  but  Mr. 
Love  seemed  uncommonly  affected  by  it;  he  did  not  say 
another  word,  but  found  himself  outside  the  house  in  a 
twinkling.  Monsieur  Favart  turned  round  and  saw  the 
Pole  making  himself  as  small  as  possible  behind  the 
goodly  proportions  of  Madame  Beavor. 

"  What  name  does  that  gentleman  go  by  1  " 

"  So-vo-lofski,  the  heroic  Pole, "  cried  Madame  Beavor, 
with  sundry  misgivings  at  the  unexpected  cowardice  of 
so  great  a  patriot. 

"  Heiii!  take  care  of  yourselves,  ladies.  I  have  noth- 
ing against  that  person  this  time.  But  Monsieur  Latour 
has  served  his  apprenticeship  at  the  galleys,  and  is  no 
more  a  Pole  than  I  am  a  Jew." 

"  And  this  lady's  fortune !  "  cried  Monsieur  Gou- 
pille,  pathetically ;  "  the  settlements  are  all  made,  — 
the  notaries  all  paid.  I  am  sure  there  must  be  some 
mistake. " 

IVIonsieur  Bihl,  who  had  by  this  time  restored  his 
lost  Helen  to  her  senses,  stalked  up  to  the  epicier,  drag- 
ging the  lady  along  with  him. 


o 


00  XIGIIT   AND   MORNING. 


"  Sir,  there  is  no  mistake!  But,  when  I  have  got  the 
money,  if  you  like  to  have  the  lady  you  are  welcome  to 
her." 

"  Monstre  !  "  again  muttered  the  fair  Adele. 

"  The  long  and  the  short  of  it,"  said  Monsieur  Favart, 
"  is,  that  Monsieur  Bihl  is  a  brave  gargon,  and  has  been 
half  over  the  world  as  a  courier. " 

"  A  courier!  "  exclaimed  several  voices, 

"  Madame  was  nursery -governess  to  an  English  milord. 
They  married  and  quarrelled, — no  harm  in  that,  mes  amis; 
nothing  more  common.  Monsieur  Bihl  is  a  very  faithful 
fellow,  nursed  his  last  master  in  an  illness  that  ended 
fatally,  because  he  travelled  with  his  doctor.  Milord 
left  him  a  handsome  legacy ;  he  retired  from  service, 
and  fell  ill,  perhaps  from  idleness  or  beer.  Is  not  that 
the  story.  Monsieur  Bihl  1  " 

"  He  was  always  drunk,  —  the  wretch !  "  sobbed  Adele. 

"  That  was  to  drown  my  domestic  sorrows, "  said  the 
German ;  "  and  when  I  was  sick  in  my  bed,  madame  ran 
off  with  my  money.  Thanks  to  monsieur,  I  have  found 
both,  and  I  wish  you  a  very  good  night. " 

"  Dansez  vous  tovjours,  vies  amis, "  said  the  officer, 
bowing.  And  following  Adele  and  her  spouse,  the 
little  man  left  the  room,  —  where  he  had  caused,  in 
chests  so  broad  and  limbs  so  doughty,  much  the  same 
consternation  as  that  which  some  diminutive  ferret  occa- 
sions in  a  burrow  of  rabbits  twice  his  size. 

Morton  had  outstayed  Mr.  Love.  But  he  thought 
it  unnecessary  to  linger  long  after  that  gentleman's 
departure;  and,  in  the  general  hubbub  that  ensued,  he 
crept  out  unperceived,  and  soon  arrived  at  the  bureau. 
He  found  Mr.  Love  and  Mr.  Birnie  already  engaged  in 
packing  up  their  effects.  "  Wliy,  —  when  did  you 
leave  ?  "  said  Morton  to  Mr.  Birnie. 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  301 

"  I  saw  the  policeman  enter. " 

"  And  wliy  the  deuce  did  not  you  tell  us  1 "  said 
Gawtrey. 

"  Every  man  for  himself.  Besides,  Mr.  Love  was  danc- 
ing, "  replied  Mr.  Birnie,  with  a  dull  glance  of  disdain. 

"  Philosophy !  "  muttered  Gawtrey,  thrusting  his  dress- 
coat  into  his  trunk,  then  suddenly  changing  his  voice, 
"  Ha!  ha!  it  was  a  very  good  joke  after  all,  — own  I  did 
it  well.  Ecod!  if  he  had  not  given  me  that  look,  I 
think  I  should  have  turned  the  tahles  on  him.  But 
those  d — d  fellows  learn  of  the  mad  doctors  how  to  tame 
us.  Faith,  my  heart  went  down  to  my  shoes,  —  yet 
I  'm  no  coward !  " 

"  But,  after  all,  he  evidently  did  not  know  you, "  said 
Morton ;  "  and  what  has  he  to  say  against  you.  Your 
trade  is  a  strange  one,  but  not  dishonest.  Why  give  up 
asif— " 

"  My  young  friend, "  interrupted  Gawtrey,  "  whether 
the  officer  comes  after  us  or  not,  our  trade  is  ruined: 
that  infernal  Adele,  with  her  fabulous  grnndmaDian, 
has  done  for  us.  Goupille  will  blow  the  temple  about 
our  ears.     iSI^o  help  for  it,  —  eh,  Birnie  ?  " 

"None." 

"  Go  to  bed,  Philip ;  we'll  call  thee  at  daybreak,  for 
we  must  make  clear  work  before  our  neighbors  open  their 
shutters. " 

Reclined,  but  half  undressed,  on  his  bed  in  the 
little  cabinet,  Morton  revolved  the  events  of  the  evening. 
The  thought  that  he  should  see  no  more  of  that  white 
hand  and  that  lovely  mouth,  which  still  haunted  his 
recollection  as  appertaming  to  the  incognita,  greatly 
indisposed  him  towards  the  abrupt  flight  intended  by 
Gawtrey,  while  (so  much  had  his  faith  in  that  person 
depended  upon  respect  for  his  confident  daring,  and  so 


302  NIGHT   AND    MOCNIXG. 

thoroughly  fearless  .was  Morton's  own  nature)  he  felt 
himself  greatly  shaken  in  his  allegiance  to  the  chief,  by 
recollecting  the  effect  produced  on  his  valor  by  a  single 
glance  from  the  instrument  of  law.  He  had  not  yet 
lived  long  enough  to  be  aware  that  men  are  sometimes 
the  representatives  of  things;  that  what  the  scytale  was 
to  the  Spartan  hero,  a  sheriff's  writ  often  is  to  a  Water- 
loo medallist;  that  a  Bow  Street  runner  will  enter  the 
foulest  den  where  murder  sits  with  his  fellows,  and  pick 
out  his  prey  with  the  beck  of  his  forefinger.  That,  in 
short,  the  thing  called  law,  once  made  tangible  and 
present,  rarel}?^  fails  to  palsy  the  fierce  heart  of  the  thing 
called  CRIME.  For  law  is  the  symbol  of  all  mankind 
reared  against  one  foe,  —  the  man  of  crime.  Not  yet 
aware  of  this  truth,  nor,  indeed,  in  the  least  suspecting 
Gawtrey  of  worse  offences  than  those  of  a  charlatanic  and 
equivocal  profession,  the  young  man  mused  over  his 
protector's  cowardice  in  disdain  and  wonder;  till,  wearied 
with  conjectures,  distrust,  and  shame  at  his  own  strange 
position  of  obligation  to  one  whom  he  could  not  respect, 
he  fell  asleep. 

When  he  woke,  he  saw  the  gray  light  of  dawn  that 
streamed  cheerlessly  through  his  shutterless  window, 
struggling  with  the  faint  ray  of  a  candle  that  Gawtrey, 
shading  with  his  hand,  held  over  the  sleeper.  He 
started  up,  and,  in  the  confusion  of  waking  and  the 
imperfect  light  by  which  he  belield  the  strong  features 
of  Gawtrey,  half  imagined  it  was  a  foe  who  stood  before 
him. 

"Take  care,  man!  "  said  Gawtrey,  as  Morton,  in  this 
belief,  grasped  his  arm.  "  You  have  a  precious  rough 
gripe  of  your  own.  Be  quiet,  will  you?  I  have  a  word 
to  say  to  you."  Here  Gawtrey,  placing  the  candle  on  a 
chair,  returned  to  the  door  and  closed  it. 


NIGHT   AND   MOUNING.  303 

**  Look  you, "  he  said  in  a  whisper,  "  I  have  nearly  run 
through  my  circle  of  invention,  and  my  wit,  fertile  as  it 
is,  can  present  to  me  little  encouragement  in  the  future. 
The  eyes  of  this  Favart,  once  on  me,  every  disguise  and 
every  double  will  not  long  avail.  I  dare  not  return  to 
London;  I  am  too  well  known  in  Brussels,  Berlin,  and 
Vienna  —  " 

"  But, "  interrupted  Morton,  raising  himself  on  his 
arm,  and  fixing  his  dark  eyes  upon  his  host,  —  "  but  you 
have  told  me  again  and  again  that  you  have  committed 
no  crime,  why  then  be  so  fearful  of  discovery  ?  " 

"  Why, "  repeated  Gawtrey,  with  a  slight  hesitation, 
which  he  instantly  overcame, — "why!  have  not  you 
yourself  learned  that  appearances  have  the  efi"ect  of 
crimes  ?  —  were  you  not  cliased  as  a  thief  when  I  rescued 
you  from  your  foe  the  law  1  —  are  you  not,  though  a  boy 
in  years,  under  an  alias,  and  an  exile  from  your  own 
land  ]  And  how  can  you  put  these  austere  questions  to 
me,  who  am  growing  gray  in  the  endeavor  to  extract 
sunbeams  from  cucumbers, — subsistence  from  poverty? 
I  repeat  that  there  are  reasons  why  I  must  avoid,  for  the 
present,  the  great  capitals.  I  must  sink  in  life,  and 
take  to  the  provinces.  Birnie  is  sanguine  as  ever;  but 
he  is  a  terrible  sort  of  comforter.  Enough  of  that.  Now 
to  yourself:  our  .'^•avings  are  less  than  you  might  expect; 
to  be  sure,  Birnie  has  been  treasurer,  and  I  have  laid  by 
a  little  for  Fanny,  which  I  will  rather  starve  than 
touch.  There  remain,  however,  150  napoleons,  and  oui 
effects,  sold  at  a  fourth  their  value,  will  fetch  150  more. 
Here  is  your  share.  I  have  compassion  on  you.  I  told 
you  I  would  bear  you  harmless  and  innocent.  Leave  us, 
while  yet  time. " 

It  seemed,  then,  to  Morton  that  Gawtrey  had  divined 
his  thoughts  of  shame  and  escape  of  the  previous  night  j 


304  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

perhaps  Gawtrey  had :  and  such  is  the  human  heart,  that 
instead  of  welcoming  the  very  release  he  had  half  con- 
templated, now  that  it  was  offered  him,  Philip  shrunk 
from  it  as  a  base  desertion. 

"  Poor  Gawtrey  !  "  said  he,  pushing  back  the  canvas 
bag  of  gold  held  out  to  him,  "  you  shall  not  go  over  the 
world,  and  feel  that  the  orphan  you  fed  and  fostered  left 
you  to  starve  with  your  money  in  his  pocket.  "When 
you  again  assure  me  that  you  have  committed  no  crime, 
you  again  remind  me  that  gratitude  has  no  right  to  be 
severe  upon  the  shifts  and  errors  of  its  benefactor.  If 
you  do  not  conform  to  society,  what  has  society  done  for 
me  ?  No !  I  will  not  forsake  you  in  a  reverse.  Portime 
has  given  you  a  fall.  What  then,  courage,  and  at  her 
again !  " 

These  last  words  were  said  so  heartily  and  cheerfully 
as  Morton  sprang  from  the  bed,  that  they  inspirited 
Gawtrey,  who  had  really  desponded  of  his  lot. 

"  Well, "  said  he,  "  I  cannot  reject  the  only  friend  left 
me ;  and  while  I  live  —  But  1  will  make  no  professions. 
Quick,  then,  our  luggage  is  already  gone,  and  I  hear 
Birnie  grunting  the  rogue's  march  of  retreat." 

Morton's  toilet  was  soon  completed,  and  the  three 
associates  bade  adieu  to  the  bureau. 

Birnie,  who  was  taciturn  and  impenetrable  as  ever, 
walked  a  little  before  as  guide.  They  arrived,  at  length , 
at  a  serrurier's  shop,  placed  in  an  alley  near  the  Porte 
St.  Denis.  The  serrurier  himself,  a  tall,  begrimed, 
black-bearded  man,  was  taking  the  shutters  from  his 
shop  as  they  approached.  He  and  Birnie  exchanged 
silent  nods;  and  the  former,  leaving  his  work,  con- 
ducted them  up  a  very  filthy  flight  of  stairs  to  an  attic, 
where  a  bed,  two  stools,  one  table,  and  an  old  walnut-tree 
bureau,  formed  the  sole  articles  of  furniture.     Gawtrey 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  305 

looked  rather  ruefully  round  the  black,  low,  damp  walls, 
and  said,  in  a  crestfallen  tone,  — 

"  We  were  better  off  at  the  Temple  of  Hymen.  But 
get  us  a  bottle  of  wine,  some  eggs,  and  a  frying-pan,  — 
by  Jove,  I  am  a  cajjital  hand  at  an  omelet !  " 

The  serrurier  nodded  again,  grinned,  and  withdrew. 

"  Rest  here, "  said  Birnie ,  in  his  calm,  passionless 
voice,  that  seemed  to  Morton,  however,  to  assume  an 
unwonted  tone  of  command.  "  I  will  go  and  make  the 
best  bargam  I  can  for  our  furniture,  buy  fresh  clothes, 
and  engage  our  places  for  Tours." 

"  For  Tours  ?  "  repeated  Morton. 

"  Yes,  there  are  some  English  there ;  one  can  live 
wherever  there  are  English, "  said  Gawtrey. 

"  Hum !  "  grunted  Birnie,  dryly,  and,  buttoning  up 
his  coat,  he  walked  slowly  away. 

About  noon  he  returned  with  a  bundle  of  clothes, 
which  Gawtrey,  who  always  regained  his  elasticity  of 
spirit  wherever  there  was  fair  play  to  his  talents, 
examined  with  great  attention,  and  many  exclamations 
of  "  Bon,  c'est  ga. " 

"  I  have  done  well  with  the  Jew, "  said  Birnie,  draAV- 
ing  from  his  coat-pocket  two  heavy  bags,  "  one  hundred 
and  eighty  napoleons.  We  shall  commence  with  a  good 
capital." 

"  You  are  right,  my  friend, "  said  Gawtrey. 

The  serrurier  was  then  despatched  to  the  best  res- 
taurayit  in  the  neighborhood,  and  the  three  adven- 
turers made  a  less  Socratic  dinner  than  might  have 
been  expected. 

VOL.  I.  — 20 


306  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Then  out  again  he  flies  to  wing  his  mazy  round. 

Thomson's  Castle  of  Indolence. 

Again  he  gazed,  "It  is,"  said  he,  "the  same; 

There  sits  he  upright  in  his  seat  secure. 

As  one  whose  conscience  is  correct  and  pure." 

Crabbe. 

The  adventurers  arrived  at  Tours,  and  established  them- 
selves there  in  a  lodging,  without  any  incident  worth 
narrating  by  the  way. 

At  Tours,  Morton  had  nothing  to  do  hut  take  his 
pleasure  and  enjoy  himself.  He  passed  for  a  young 
heir;  Gawtrey  for  his  tutor,  —  a  doctor  in  divinity; 
Birnie  for  his  valet.  The  task  of  maintenance  fell  on 
Gawtrey,  who  hit  off  his  character  to  a  hair;  larded  his 
grave  jokes  with  university  scraps  of  Latin  ;  looked  big 
and  well-fed;  wore  knee-breeches  and  a  shovel  hat;  and 
played  whist  with  the  skill  of  a  veteran  vicar.  By  his 
science  in  that  game  he  made,  at  first,  enough  at  least 
to  defray  their  weekly  expenses.  But,  by  degrees,  the 
good  people  at  Tours,  who,  under  pretence  of  health, 
were  there  for  economy,  grew  shy  of  so  excellent  a 
player;  and,  though  Gawtrey  always  swore  solemnly 
that  he  played  with  the  most  .scrupulous  honor  (an 
asseveration  which  Morton,  at  least,  implicitly  believed), 
and  no  proof  to  the  contrary  Avas  ever  detected,  yet  a 
first-rate  card-player  is  always  a  suspicious  character, 
unless  the  losing  parties  know  exactly  who  he  is.  The 
market  fell  off,  and  Gawtrey  at  length  thought  it  prudent 
to  extend  their  travels. 


NIGHT   AND    MOltNING.  307 

"Ah!  "  said  Mr.  Gawtrey,  "the  world  nowadays  has 
grown  so  ostentatious,  that  one  cannot  travel  advanta- 
geously without  a  post-chariot  and  four  horses."  At 
length  they  found  themselves  at  Milan,  which  at  that 
time  was  one  of  the  El  Dorados  for  gamesters.  Here, 
however,  for  want  of  introductions,  Mr.  Gawtrey  found 
it  difficult  to  get  into  society.  The  nobles,  proud  and 
rich,  played  high,  but  were  circumspect  in  their  com- 
pany; the  bourgeoisie,  industrious  and  energetic,  pre- 
served much  of  the  old  Lombard  shrewdness;  there 
were  no  tables  d'hote  and  public  reunions.  Gawtrey 
saw  his  little  capital  daily  diminishing,  with  the  Alps 
at  the  rear,  and  poverty  in  the  van.  At  length,  always 
on  the  qui  vive,  he  contrived  to  make  acquaintance  with 
a  Scotch  family  of  great  respectability.  He  effected 
this  by  picking  up  a  snufif-box  which  the  Scotchman 
had  dropped  in  taking  out  his  handkerchief.  This 
politeness  paved  the  way  to  a  conversation  in  which 
Gawtrey  made  himself  so  agreeable,  and  talked  with 
such  zest  of  the  Modern  Athens,  and  the  tricks  prac- 
tised upon  travellers,  that  he  was  presented  to  Mrs. 
Macgregor ;  cards  were  interchanged;  and,  as  Mr.  Gawtrey 
lived  in  tolerable  style,  the  Macgregors  pronounced  him 
"a  vara  genteel  mon."  Once  in  the  house  of  a  respect- 
able person,  Gawtrey  contrived  to  turn  himself  round 
and  round,  till  he  burrowed  a  hole  into  the  English 
circle  then  settled  in  Milan.  His  whist-playing  came 
into  requisition,  and  once  more  fortune  smiled  upon  skill. 

To  this  house  the  pupil  one  evening  accompanied  the 
tutor.  When  the  whist-party,  consisting  of  two  tables, 
was  formed,  the  young  man  found  himself  left  out  with 
an  old  gentleman,  who  seemed  loquacious  and  good- 
natured,  and  who  put  many  questions  to  Morton  which 
he  found  it  difficult  to  answer.     One  of  the  whist-tables 


308  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

was  now  in  a  state  of  revolution,  — namely,  a  lady  had 
cut  out,  and  a  gentleman  cut  in,  when  the  door  opened, 
and  Lord  Lilburnc  was  announced. 

Mr.  Macgregor,  rising,  advanced  with  great  respect  to 
this  personage. 

"  I  scarcely  ventured  to  hope  you  would  coom.  Lord 
Lilburne,  the  night  is  so  cold." 

"  You  did  not  allow  sufficiently,  then,  for  the  dulness 
of  my  solitary  inn  and  the  attractions  of  your  circle. 
Aha!  whist,  I  see." 

"  You  play  sometimes  1  " 

"  Very  seldom,  now;  I  have  sown  all  my  Avild  oats, 
and  even  the  ace  of  spades  can  scarcely  dig  them  out 
again. " 

"  Ha!  ha!  vara  gude." 

"  I  will  look  on ;  "  and  Lord  Lilburne  drew  his  chair 
to  the  table,  exactly  opposite  to  Mr.  Gawtrey. 

The  old  gentleman  turned  to  Philip. 

"  An  extraordinary  man,  —  Lord  Lilburne;  you  have 
heard  of  him,  of  course  1  " 

"  No,  indeed;  what  of  him?  "  asked  the  young  man, 
rousing  himself. 

"  What  of  him  1  "  said  the  old  gentleman,  with  a 
smile;  "why  the  newspapers,  if  you  ever  read  them, 
will  tell  you  enough  of  the  elegant,  the  witty  Lord 
Lilburne, — a  man  of  eminent  talent,  though  indolent. 
He  was  wild  in  his  youth,  as  clever  men  often  are; 
but,  on  attaining  his  title  and  fortune,  and  marrying 
into  the  family  of  the  then  premier,  he  became  more 
sedate.  They  say  he  might  make  a  great  figure  in  pol- 
itics if  he  would.  He  has  a  very  high  reputation,  — 
very.  People  do  say  he  is  still  fond  of  pleasure,  but 
that  is  a  common  failing  amongst  the  aristocracy. 
Morality  is  only  found  in  the    middle   classes,    young 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  309 

gentleman.  It  is  a  lucky  family,  that  of  Lilburne;  his 
sister,  Mrs.  Beaufort  —  " 

"]?eaufort!"  exclaimed  Morton,  and  then  muttered 
to  himself,  "  Ah,  true,  —  true,  1  have  heard  the  name  of 
Lilburne  before." 

"Do  you  know  the  Beauforts?  Well,  you  remember 
how  luckily  Robert,  Lilburne's  brother-in-law,  came 
into  that  fine  property  just  as  his  predecessor  was  about 
to  marry  a  —  " 

Morton  scowled  at  his  garrulous  acquaintance,  and 
stalked  abruptly  to  the  card-table. 

Ever  since  Lord  Lilburne  had  seated  himself  opposite 
to  Mr.  Gawtrey,  that  gentleman  had  evinced  a  pertur- 
bation of  manner  that  became  obvious  to  the  company. 
He  grew  deadly  pale,  his  hands  trembled,  he  moved 
uneasily  in  his  seat,  he  missed  deal,  he  trumped  his 
partner's  best  diamond,  finally  he  revoked,  threw  down 
his  money,  and  said,  with  a  forced  smile,  "That  the 
heat  of  the  room  overcame  him."  As  he  rose,  Lord 
Lilburne  rose  also,  and  the  eyes  of  both  met,  —  those  of 
Lilburne  were  calm,  but  penetrating  and  inquisitive  in 
their  gaze ;  those  of  Gawtrey  were  like  balls  of  fire. 
He  seemed  gradually  to  dilate  in  his  height,  his  broad 
chest  expanded,  he  breathed  hard. 

"  Ah,  Doctor,"  said  Mr.  Macgregor,  "  let  me  introduce 
you  to  Lord  Lilburne." 

The  peer  bowed  haughtily;  Mr.  Gawtrey  did  not 
return  the  salutation,  but  with  a  sort  of  gulp  as  if  he 
were  swallowing  some  burst  of  passion,  strode  to  the 
fire;  and  then,  turning  round,  again  fixed  his  gaze  upon 
the  new  guest.  Lilburne,  however,  who  had  never  lost 
his  self-composure  at  this  strange  rudeness,  was  now 
quietly  talking  with  their  host. 

"  Your    Doctor    seems    an    eccentric    man :    a   little 


310  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

absent,  — learned,  I  suppose.     Have  you  been  to  Como 

yet?" 

Mr.  Gawtrey  remained  by  the  fire  beating  the  devil's 
tattoo  upon  the  chimney-piece,  and  ever  and  anon  turn- 
ing his  glance  towards  Lilburne,  who  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  his  existence. 

Both  these  guests  stayed  till  the  party  broke  up,  Mr. 
Gawtrey  apparently  wishing  to  outstay  Lord  Lilburne; 
for,  when  the  last  went  downstairs,  Mr.  Gawtrey,  nod- 
ding to  his  comrade,  and  giving  a  hurried  bow  to  the 
host,  descended  also.  As  they  passed  the  porter's  lodge, 
they  found  Lilburne  on  the  step  of  his  carriage;  he 
turned  his  head  abruptly,  and  again  met  Mr.  Gawtrey's 
eye,  paused  a  moment,  and  Avhispered  over  his 
shoulder,  — 

"  So  we  remember  each  other,  sir  ?  Let  us  not  meet 
again;  and,  on  that  condition,  bygones  are  bygones." 

"  Scoundrel!  "  muttered  Gawtrey,  clenching  his  fists; 
but  the  peer  had  sprung  into  his  carriage  with  a  light- 
ness scarcely  to  be  expected  from  his  lameness,  and  the 
wheels  whirled  within  an  inch  of  the  soi-disant  doctor's 
right  pump. 

Gawtrey  walked  on  for  some  moments  in  great  excite- 
ment; at  length  he  turned  to  his  companion :  — 

"  Do  you  guess  who  Lord  Lilburne  is  ?  I  will  tell  you, 
—  my  first  foe  and  Fanny's  grandfather!  Now  note  the 
justice  of  fate:  Here  is  this  man,  —  mark  well,  — this 
man,  who  commenced  life  by  putting  his  faults  on  my 
o^vn  shoulders!  From  that  little  boss  has  fungused  out 
a  terrible  hump.  This  man  who  seduced  my  affianced 
bride,  and  then  left  her  whole  soul,  once  fair  and  bloom- 
ing—  I  swear  it  —  with  its  leaves  fresh  from  the  dews 
of  heaven,  one  rank  leprosy,  —  this  man  who,  rolling  in 
riches,  learned   to  cheat  and  pilfer  as  a  boy  learns  to 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  311 

dance  and  play  the  fiddle,  and  (to  damn  me  whose  hap- 
piness he  had  blasted)  accused  me  to  the  world  of  his 
own  crime;  here  is  this  man  who  has  not  left  off  one 
vice,  but  added  to  those  of  his  youth  the  bloodless  craft 
of  the  veteran  knave ;  here  is  this  man,  flattered,  courted, 
great,  marching  through  lanes  of  bowing  parasites,  to  an 
illustrious  epitaph  and  a  marble  tomb;  and  I,  a  rogue 
too,  if  you  will,  but  rogue  for  my  bread,  dating  from 
him  my  errors  and  my  ruin!  I,  vagabond,  outcast, 
skulking  through  tricks  to  avoid  crime,  —  why  the  dif- 
ference ?  Because  one  is  born  rich  and  the  other  poor, 
—  because  he  has  no  excuse  for  crime,  and  therefore  no 
one  suspects  him!  " 

The  wretched  man  (for  at  that  moment  he  was 
wretched)  paused  breathless  from  his  passionate  and 
rapid  burst,  and  before  him  rose  in  its  marble  majesty, 
with  the  moon  full  upon  its  shining  spires  —  the  wonder 
of  Gothic  Italy,  — the  Cathedral  Church  of  Milan. 

"  Chafe  not  yourself  at  the  universal  fate,"  said  the 
young  man,  with  a  bitter  smile  on  his  lips  and  pointing 
to  the  cathedral.  "  I  have  not  lived  long,  but  I  have 
learned  already  enough  to  know  this,  —  he  who  could 
raise  a  pile  like  that,  dedicated  to  Heaven,  would  be 
honored  as  a  saint;  he  who  knelt  to  God  by  the  road- 
side under  a  hedge,  would  be  sent  to  the  house  of  cor- 
rection as  a  vagabond !  The  difference  between  man  and 
man  is  money,  and  will  be,  when  you,  the  despised 
charlatnn,  and  Lilburne,  the  honored  cheat,  have  not 
left  as  much  dust  behind  you  as  will  fill  a  snuff-box. 
Comfort  yourself,  you  are  in  the  majority." 


312  NIGHT   AND   MOKNING. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  desert  wild 
Before  them  stretched  bare,  comfortless,  and  vast. 
With  gibbets,  bones,  and  carcasses  defiled. 

Thomson's  Castle  of  Indolence. 

Mr.  Gawtrey  did  not  wish  to  give  his  foe  the  triumph 
of  thinking  he  had  driven  him  from  Milan:  he  resolved 
to  stay  and  brave  it  out;  but  when  he  appeared  in  pub- 
lic, he  found  the  acquaintances  he  had  formed  bow 
politely,  but  cross  to  the  other  side  of  the  way.  No 
more  invitations  to  tea  and  cards  showered  in  upon  the 
jolly  parson.  He  was  puzzled,  for  people,  while  they 
slmnned  him,  did  not  appear  uncivil.  He  found  out 
at  last  that  a  report  was  circulated  that  he  was  deranged; 
though  he  could  not  trace  this  rumor  to  Lord  Lilburne, 
he  was  at  no  loss  to  guess  from  whom  it  had  emanated. 
His  own  eccentricities,  especially  his  recent  manner  at 
Mr.  Macgregor's,  gave  confirmation  to  the  charge.  Again 
the  funds  began  to  sink  low  in  the  canvas  bags,  and  at 
length,  in  despair,  Mr.  Gawtrey  was  obliged  to  quit  the 
field.  They  returned  to  France  through  Switzerland,  — 
a  country  too  poor  for  gamesters;  and  ever  since  the 
interview  with  Lilburne,  a  great  change  had  come  over 
Gawtrey 's  gay  spirit:  he  grew  moody  and  thoughtful; 
he  took  no  pains  to  replenish  the  common  stock;  he 
talked  much  and  seriously  to  his  young  friend  of  poor 
Fanny,  and  owned  that  he  yearned  to  see  her  again. 
The  desire  to  return  to  Paris  haunted  him  like  a  fatality; 
he  saw  the  danger  that  awaited  him  there,  but  it  only 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  313 

allured  him  the  more,  —  as  the  candle  does  the  moth 
whose  wings  it  has  singed.  Birnie,  who,  in  all  their 
vicissitudes  and  wanderings,  their  ups  and  downs, 
retained  the  same  tacit,  immovable  demeanor,  received 
with  a  sneer  the  orders  at  last  to  march  back  upon  the 
French  capital.  "  You  would  never  have  left  it,  if  you 
had  taken  my  advice,"  he  said,  and  quitted  the  room. 

Mr.  Gawtrey  gazed  after  him,  and  muttered,  "  Is  the 
die  tlien  cast  ?  " 

"  What  does  he  mean  ?  "  said  Morton. 

"You  will  know  soon,"  replied  Gawtrey,  and  he  fol- 
lowed Birnie;  and  from  that  time  the  whispered  confer- 
ences with  that  person,  which  had  seemed  suspended 
during  their  travels,  were  renewed. 

One  morning  three  men  were  seen  entering  Paris  on 
foot  through  the  Porte  St.  Denis.  It  was  a  fine  day 
in  spring,  and  the  whole  city  looked  gay  with  its  loiter- 
ing passengers  and  gaudy  shops,  and  under  that  clear 
blue  exhilarating  sky  so  peculiar  to  France. 

Two  of  these  men  walked  abreast,  the  other  preceded 
them  a  few  steps.  The  one  who  went  first,  thin,  pale, 
and  threadbare,  yet  seemed  to  suffer  the  least  from 
fatigue;  he  walked  with  a  long,  swinging,  noiseless 
stride,  looking  to  the  right  and  left  from  the  corners  of 
his  eyes.  Of  the  tAvo  who  followed,  one  was  handsome 
and  finely  formed,  but  of  swarthy  complexion,  young, 
yet  with  a  look  of  care;  the  other,  of  sturdy  frame, 
leaned  on  a  thick  stick,  and  his  eyes  were  gloomily  cast 
down. 

"  Philip,"  said  the  last,  "  in  coming  back  to  Paris,  I 
feel  that  I  am  coming  back  to  my  grave !  " 

"  Pooh !  you  were  equally  despondent  on  our  excur- 
sions elsewhere. " 


314  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  Because  I  was  always  thinking  of  poor  Fanny,  and 
because  —  because  —  Birnie  was  ever  at  me  with  his 
horrible  temptations!" 

"  Birnie !  I  loathe  the  man.  Will  you  never  get  rid 
of  him  1  " 

"I  cannot!  Hush!  he  will  hear  us!  How  unlucky 
we  have  been !  and  now  without  a  sou  in  our  pockets : 
here  the  dunghill, — there  the  jail!  We  are  in  his 
power  at  last !  " 

"  His  power!  what  mean  you?  " 

"What  ho!  Birnie!"  cried  Gawtrey,  unheeding 
Morton's  question,  "let  us  halt  and  breakfast;  I  am 
tired." 

"  You  forget!  —  we  have  no  money  till  we  make  it!  " 
returned  Birnie,  coldly.  "  Come  to  the  serrurier'Sf 
—  he  will  trust  us !  " 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  315 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

Gaunt  Beggary  and  Scorn  with  many  hell-hounds  more. 

Thomson's  Castle  o/  Indolence, 

The  other  was  a  fell,  despiteful  fiend.  —  Ibid. 

Your  happiness  behold  !  then  straight  a  wand 
He  waved,  an  anti-magic  power  that  hath 
Truth  from  illu.sive  falsehood  to  command. 

Ib!d. 
But  what  for  us,  the  cliildren  of  despair, 

Brouglit  to  the  brink  of  heU,  —  what  hope  remains  ? 
Resolve,  Resolve  ! 

Ihid. 

It  may  be  observed  that  there  are  certain  years  in  which, 
in  a  civilized  country,  some  particular  crime  comes  into 
vogue.  It  flares  its  season,  and  then  burns  out.  Thus 
at  one  time  we  have  Burking,  —  at  another,  Swingism  ; 
now,  suicide  is  in  vogue;  now,  poisoning  tradespeople 
in  apple-dumplings;  now,  little  boys  stab  each  other 
with  penknives;  now,  common  soldiers  shoot  at  their 
sergeants.  Almost  every  year  there  is  one  crime  peculiar 
to  it,  —  a  sort  of  annual  which  overruns  the  country ,  but 
does  not  bloom  again.  Unquestionably  the  press  has  a 
great  deal  to  do  with  these  epidemics.  Let  a  news- 
paper once  give  an  account  of  some  out-of-the-way  atrocity 
that  has  the  charm  of  being  novel,  and  certain  depraved 
minds  fasten  to  it  like  leeches.  They  brood  over  and 
revolve  it,  —  the  idea  grows  up,  a  horrid  phantasmalian 
monomania  ;  ^  and  all  of  a  sudden,  in  a  hundred  different 

1  An  old  Spanish  writer,  treating  of  the  Inquisition,  has  some 
very  striking  remarks  on  the  kind  of  madness  which,  whenever 
some  terrible  notoriety  is  given  to  a  particular  offence,  leads  per- 


316  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

places,  the  one  seed  sown  by  the  leaden  types  springs  up 
into  foul  flowering.  But  if  the  first  reported  aboriginal 
crime  has  been  attended  with  impunity,  how  much  more 
does  the  imitative  faculty  cling  to  it!  Ill-judged  mercy 
falls,  not  like  dew,  but  like  a  great  heap  of  manure, 
on  the  rank  deed. 

Xow  it  happened  that  at  the  time  I  write  of,  or  rather 
a  little  before,  there  had  been  detected  and  tried  in 
Paris  a  most  redoubted  coiner.  He  had  carried  on  the 
business  with  a  dexterity  that  won  admiration  even  for 
the  offence;  and,  moreover,  he  had  served  previously 
■with  some  distinction  at  Austerlitz  and  Marengo.  The 
consequence  was  that  the  public  went  with  instead  of 
against  him,  and  his  sentence  was  transmuted  to  three 
years'  imprisonment  by  the  government ;  for  all  govern- 
ments in  free  countries  aspire  rather  to  be  popular  than 
just. 

Xo  sooner  was  this  case  reported  in  the  journals,  —  and 
even  the  gravest  took  notice  of  it,  which  is  not  com- 
mon with  the  scholastic  journals  of  France,  —  no  sooner 
did  it  make  a  stir  and  a  sensation,  and  cover  the  criminal 
with  celebrity,  than  the  result  became  noticeable  in  a  very 
large  issue  of  false  money. 

Coining,  in  the  year  I  now  write  of,  was  the  fashion- 
able crime.  The  police  were  roused  into  full  vigor:  it 
became  known  to  them  that  there  was  one  gang  in  especial 
who  cultivated  this  art  with  singular  success.  Their 
coinage  was,  indeed,  so  good,  so  superior  to  all  their 
rivals,  that  it  was  often  unconsciously  preferred  by  the 

Bons  of  distempered  fancy  to  accuse  themselves  of  it.  He  observes 
that  when  the  cruelties  of  the  Inquisition  against  the  imaginary 
crime  of  sorcery  were  the  most  barbarous,  this  singular  frenzy  led 
numbers  to  accuse  tliemselves  of  sorcery  'ihe  publication  and 
celebrity  of  the  crime  begat  the  desire  of  the  crime. 


NIGHT   AND   MOUNING.  317 

public  to  the  real  mintage.  At  the  same  time  they  car- 
ried on  their  calling  with  such  secrecy  that  they  utterly 
baffled  discovery. 

An  immense  reward  was  offered  by  the  bureaxi  to  any 
one  who  would  betray  his  accomplices,  and  Monsieur 
Favart  was  placed  at  the  head  of  a  commission  of  inquiry. 
This  person  had  himself  been  a  faux  vionnoyer,  and 
was  an  adept  in  the  art,  and  it  was  he  who  had  discovered 
the  redoubted  coiner  who  had  brought  the  crime  into 
such  notoriety.  Monsieur  Favart  was  a  man  of  the  most 
vigilant  acuteness,  the  most  indefatigable  research,  and  of 
a  courage  which,  perhaps,  is  more  common  than  we  sup- 
pose. It  is  a  popular  error  to  suppose  that  courage 
means  courage  in  everything.  Put  a  hero  on  board  ship 
at  a  five-barred  gate,  and  if  he  is  not  used  to  hunting 
he  Avill  tvirn  pale.  Put  a  fox-hunter  on  one  of  the  Swiss 
chasms,  over  which  the  mountameer  springs  like  a  roe, 
and  his  knees  will  knock  under  him.  People  are  brave 
in  the  dangers  to  which  they  accustom  themselves,  either 
in  imagination  or  practice. 

Monsieur  Favart,  then,  was  a  man  of  the  most  daring 
bravery  in  facing  rogues  and  cutthroats.  He  awed  them 
with  his  very  eye ;  yet  he  had  been  known  to  have  been 
kicked  downstairs  by  his  wife,  and  when  he  was  drawn 
into  the  grand  army,  he  deserted  the  eve  of  his  first  battle. 
Such,  as  moralists  say,  is  the  inconsistency  of  man! 

But  Monsieur  Favart  was  sworn  to  trace  the  coiners, 
and  he  had  never  failed  yet  in  any  enterprise  he  under- 
took. One  day  he  presented  himself  to  his  chief  with  a 
countenance  so  elated,  that  that  penetrating  functionary 
said  to  him  at  once, — 

"  You  have  heard  of  our  messieurs !  " 

"  I  have :  I  am  to  visit  them  to-night. " 

"  Bravo !     How  many  men  will  you  take  ?  " 


318  NIGHT   AND    xMORNING. 

"  From  twelve  to  twenty  to  leave  without  on  guard. 
But  I  must  enter  alone.  Such  is  the  condition :  an  accom- 
plice who  fears  his  own  throat  too  much  to  be  openly 
a  betrayer,  will  introduce  me  to  the  house, —  nay,  to 
the  very  room.  By  his  description,  it  is  necessary  I 
should  know  the  exact  locale  in  order  to  cut  olf  retreat; 
so  to-morrow  night  I  shall  surround  the  beehive  and  take 
the  honey." 

"  They  are  desperate  fellows,  these  coiners,  always ; 
better  be  cautious." 

"  You  forget,  I  was  one  of  them,  and  know  the 
masonry." 

About  the  same  time  this  conversation  was  going  on 
at  the  bureau  of  the  police,  in  another  part  of  the  town 
Morton  and  Gawtrey  were  seated  alone.  It  is  some 
weeks  since  they  entered  Paris,  and  spring  has  mellowed 
into  summer.  The  house  in  which  they  lodged  was  in 
the  lordly  quartier  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain;  the 
neighboring  streets  were  venerable  with  the  ancient  edi- 
fices of  a  fallen  noblesse,  —  but  their  tenement  was  in  a 
narrow,  dingy  lane,  and  the  building  itself  seemed  beg- 
garly and  ruinous.  The  apartment  was  in  an  attic  on 
the  sixth  story,  and  the  window,  placed  at  the  back  of 
the  lane,  looked  upon  another  row  of  houses  of  a  better 
description,  that  communicated  with  one  of  the  great 
streets  of  the  quartier.  The  space  betAveen  their  abode 
and  their  opposite  neighbors  was  so  narrow  that  the  sun 
could  scarcely  pierce  between.  In  the  height  of  summer 
might  be  found  there  a  perpetual  shade. 

The  pair  were  seated  by  the  window.  Gawtrey,  well- 
dressed,  sraootli-shaven,  as  in  his  palmy  time;  Morton, 
in  the  same  garments  with  which  he  had  entered  Paris, 
weather-stained  and  ragged.  Looking  towards  the  case- 
ments of  the  attic  in  the  opposite  house,  Gawtrey  said, 


KIGHT   AND   MOKNING.  319 

mutteringly,  "  I  wonder  where  Birnie  has  been,  and  why 
he  is  not  returned :  I  grow  suspicious  of  that  man. " 

"  Suspicious  of  what  ? "  asked  IMorton.  "  Of  his 
honesty  ?     Would  he  rob  you  ?  " 

"Rob  me!  Humpli, —  perhaps!  But  you  see  I  am 
in  Paris,  in  spite  of  the  hints  of  the  police;  he  may 
denounce  me." 

"  Why  then  suffer  him  to  lodge  away  from  you  1  " 

"  Why  ?  because  by  having  separate  houses  there  are 
two  channels  of  escape.  A  dark  night,  and  a  ladder 
thrown  across  from  window  to  window,  he  is  with  us,  or 
we  with  him." 

"  But  wherefore  such  precautions  ?  You  blind,  you 
deceive  me ;  what  have  you  done  1  —  what  is  your  em- 
ployment now?  You  are  mute.  Hark  you,  Gawtrey! 
I  have  pinned  my  fate  to  you, —  I  am  fallen  from  hope 
itself.  At  times  it  almost  makes  me  mad  to  look  back, 
—  and  yet  you  do  not  trust  me.  Since  your  return  to 
Paris  you  are  absent  whole  nights,  — often  days;  you 
are  moody  and  thoughtful, —  yet,  whatever  your  busi- 
ness, it  seems  to  bring  you  ample  returns." 

"  You  think  that, "  said  Gawtrey,  mildly,  and  with  a 
sort  of  pity  in  his  voice,  "  yet  you  refuse  to  take  even 
the  money  to  change  those  rags." 

"  Because  I  know  not  how  the  money  was  gained. 
Ah !  G  awtrey,  I  am  not  too  proud  for  charity ;  but  I  am 
for  —  " 

He  checked  the  word  uppermost  in  his  thoughts,  and 
resumed, — 

"  Yes ;  your  occupations  seem  lucrative.  It  was  but 
yesterday  Birnie  gave  me  fifty  napoleons,  for  which  he 
said  you  wished  change  in  silver. " 

"  Did  he  1  The  ras —  Well !  and  you  got  change  for 
them?" 


320  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  I  know  not  why,  but  I  refused," 

"  Tliat  Avas  riglit,  Philip.     Do  nothing  that  man  tells 

you." 

"  Will  you  then  trust  me  ?  You  are  engaged  in  some 
horrible  traffic !  it  may  be  blood !  I  am  no  longer  a  boy : 
I  have  a  will  of  my  own;  I  will  not  be  silently  and 
blindly  entrapped  to  perdition.  If  I  march  thither,  it 
shall  be  with  my  own  consent.  Trust  me,  and  this  day, 
or  we  part  to-morrow. " 

"  Be  ruled.     Some  secrets  it  is  better  not  to  know. " 

"  It  matters  not !  I  have  come  to  my  decision :  I  ask 
yours. " 

Gawtrey  paused  for  some  moments  in  deep  thought. 
At  last  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  Philip,  and  replied, — 

"  Well ,  then,  if  it  must  be.  Sooner  or  later  it  must 
have  been  so,  and  I  want  a  confidant.  You  are  bold, 
and  will  not  shrink.  You  desire  to  know  my  occupa- 
tion,—  will  you  witness  it  to-night?  " 

"  I  am  prepared :  to-night !  " 

Here  a  step  was  heard  on  the  stairs,  a  knock  at  the 
door,  and  Birnie  entered. 

He  drew  aside  Gawtrey,  and  whispered  him,  as  usual, 
for  some  moments. 

Gawtrey  nodded  his  head,  and  then  said  aloud, — 

"  To-morrow  we  shall  talk  without  reserve  before  my 
young  friend.     To-night  he  joins  us. " 

"  To-night !  —  very  well !  "  said  Birnie,  with  his  cold 
sneer.  "  He  must  take  the  oath ;  and  you,  with  your 
life,  will  be  responsible  for  his  honesty  ?  " 

"  Ay !  it  is  the  rule. " 

"  Good-by,  then,  till  we  meet, "  said  Birnie,  and 
withdrew. 

"  I  wonder, "  said  Gawtrey,  musingly,  and  between  his 
grinded  teeth,    "  whether  I  shall  ever  have  a  good  fair 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  321 

shot  at  that  fellow  1     Ho !  ho !  "  and  his  laugh  shook  the 
walls. 

Morton  looked  hard  at  Gawtrey,  as  the  latter  now  sunk 
down  in  his  chair,  and  gazed  with  a  vacant  stare,  that 
seemed  almost  to  partake  of  imbecility,  upon  the  oppo- 
site wall.  The  careless,  reckless,  jovial  expression 
which  usually  characterized  the  features  of  the  man  had 
for  some  weeks  given  place  to  a  restless,  anxious,  and, 
at  times,  ferocious  aspect;  like  the  beast  that  first  finds 
a  sport  while  the  hounds  are  yet  afar,  and  his  limbs  are 
yet  strong,  in  the  chase  which  marks  him  for  his  victim, 
but  grows  desperate  with  rage  and  fear  as  the  day  nears 
its  close,  and  the  death-dogs  pant  hard  upon  his  track: 
but  at  that  moment,  the  strong  features,  with  their 
gnarled  muscle  and  iron  sinews,  seemed  to  have  lost 
every  sign  both  of  passion  and  the  will,  and  to  be  locked 
in  a  stolid  and  dull  repose.  At  last  he  looked  up  at 
Morton,  and  said,  with  a  smile,  like  that  of  an  old  man 
in  his  dotage, — 

"  I  'm  thinking  that  my  life  has  been  one  mistake.  I 
had  talents,  —  you  would  not  fancy  it ;  but  once  I  was 
neither  a  fool  nor  a  villain !  Odd,  is  n't  it  1  Just  reach 
me  the  brandy." 

But  Morton,  with  a  slight  shudder,  turned  and  left 
the  room. 

He  walked  on  mechanically,  and  gained,  at  last,  the 
superb  quai  that  borders  the  Seine:  there,  the  passen- 
gers became  more  frequent;  gay  equipages  rolled  along; 
the  white  and  lofty  mansions  looked  fair  and  stately  in 
the  clear,  blue  sky  of  early  summer ;  beside  him  flowed  the 
sparkling  river,  animated  with  the  painted  baths  that 
floated  on  its  surface.  Earth  was  merry  and  heaven 
serene;  his  heart  was  dark  through  all.  Night  within, — 
Morning  beautiful  without!     At  last  he  paused  by  that 

VOL.  I.  —  21 


322  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

bridge,  stately  with  the  statues  of  those  whom  the 
caprice  of  time  lionors  with  a  name ;  for  though  Zeus  and 
his  gods  be  overthrown,  while  earth  exists  will  live  the 
worship  of  dead  men :  the  bridge  by  which  you  pass  from 
the  royal  Tuileries,  or  the  luxurious  streets  beyond  the 
Kue  de  Eivoli,  to  the  Senate  of  the  emancipated  people, 
and  the  gloomy  and  desolate  grandeur  of  the  Faubourg 
St.  Germain,  in  whose  venerable  haunts  the  impover- 
ished descendants  of  the  old  feudal  tyrants,  whom  the 
birth  of  the  Senate  overthrew,  yet  congregate,  —  the 
ghosts  of  departed  powers  proud  of  the  shadows  of  great 
names.  As  the  English  outcast  paused  midway  on  the 
bridge,  and  for  the  first  time  lifting  his  head  from  his 
bosom,  gazed  around,  there  broke  at  once  on  his  remem- 
brance that  terrible  and  fatal  evening  when,  hopeless, 
friendless,  desperate,  he  had  begged  for  charity  of  his 
uncle's  hireling,  with  all  the  feelings  that  then  (so  imper- 
fectly and  lightly  touched  on  in  his  brief  narrative  to 
Gawtrey)  had  raged  and  blackened  in  his  breast,  urging 
to  the  resolution  he  had  adopted,  casting  him  on  the 
ominous  friendship  of  the  man  whose  guidance  he  even 
then  had  suspected  and  distrusted.  The  spot  in  either 
city  had  had  a  certain  similitude  and  correspondence  each 
with  each:  at  the  first,  he  had  consummated  his  despair 
of  human  destinies;  he  had  dared  to  forget  the  Provi- 
dence of  God;  he  had  arrogated  his  fate  to  himself, —  by 
the  first  bridge  he  had  taken  his  resolve ;  by  the  last  he 
stood  in  awe  at  the  result !  —  stood  no  less  poor,  no  less 
abject,  equally  in  rags  and  squalor;  but  was  his  crest 
as  haughty  and  his  eye  as  fearless,  for  was  his  conscience 
as  free  and  his  honor  as  unstained?  Those  arches  of 
stone,  those  rivers  that  rolled  between,  seemed  to  him 
then  to  take  a  more  mystic  and  typical  sense  than  belongs 
to   the    outer    world,  —  they  were    the   bridges   to   the 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  323 

rivers  of  his  life.  Plunged  in  thoughts  so  confused  and 
dim  that  he  could  scarcely  distinguish,  through  the  chaos, 
the  one  streak  of  light  which,  perhaps,  heralded  the  recon- 
struction or  regeneration  of  the  elements  of  his  soul ;  two 
passengers  halted,  also,  by  his  side. 

"  You  will  be  late  for  the  debate,"  said  one  of  them 
to  the  other.     "  Why  do  you  stop  ?  " 

"  My  friend,"  said  the  other,  "  I  never  pass  this  spot 
without  recalling  the  time  when  I  stood  here  without  a 
sou,  or,  as  I  thought,  a  chance  of  one,  and  impiously 
meditated  self-destruction. " 

"  You/  —  now  so  rich,  so  fortunate  in  repute  and 
station !  —  is  it  possible  ?  How  was  it  ?  A  lucky 
chance,  a  sudden  legacy  1  " 

"No;  time,  faith,  and  energy,  —  the  three  friends 
God  has  given  to  the  poor!  " 

The  men  moved  on;  but  Morton,  who  had  turned  his 
face  towards  them,  fancied  that  the  last  speaker  fixed  on 
him  his  bright,  cheerful  eye,  with  a  meaning  look;  and 
when  the  man  was  gone,  he  repeated  those  words,  and 
hailed  them  in  his  heart  of  hearts  as  an  augury  from 
above. 

Quickly  then,  and  as  if  by  magic,  the  former  confu- 
sion of  his  mind  seemed  to  settle  into  distinct  shapes  of 
courage  and  resolve.  "Yes,"  he  muttered;  "I  will 
keep  this  night's  appointment,  —  I  will  learn  the  secret 
of  these  men's  life.  In  my  inexperience  and  destitution, 
I  have  suffered  myself  to  be  led  hitherto  into  a  partner- 
ship, if  not  with  vice  and  crime,  at  least  with  subterfuge 
and  trick.  I  awake  from  my  reckless  boyhood,  —  my 
unworthy  palterings  with  my  better  self.  If  Gawtrey 
be  as  I  dread  to  find  him,  if  he  be  linked  in  some 
guilty  and  hateful  traffic  with  that  loathsome  accom- 
plice, I  will  —  "    He  paused,  for  his  heart  whispered, 


324  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  Well,  and  even  so,  —  the  guilty  man  clotlied  and  fed 
thee!"  "I  will,"  resumed  his  thought,  in  answer  to 
his  heart,  —  "I  will  go  on  my  knees  to  him  to  fly 
while  there  is  yet  time,  to  work,  beg,  starve,  perish 
even,  rather  than  lose  the  right  to  look  man  in  the 
face  without  a  blush,  and  kneel  to  his  God  without 
remorse !  " 

And  as  he  thus  ended,  he  felt  suddenly  as  if  he  him- 
self were  restored  to  the  perception  and  the  joy  of  the 
nature  and  the  world  around  him ;  the  night  had  van- 
ished from  his  soul,  —  he  inhaled  the  balm  and  fresh- 
ness of  the  air;  he  comprehended  the  delight  which  the 
liberal  June  Avas  scattering  over  the  earth ;  he  looked 
above,  and  his  eyes  were  suffused  with  pleasure  at  the 
smile  of  the  soft,  blue  skies.  The  morning  became,  as 
it  were,  a  part  of  his  own  being;  and  he  felt  that  as  the 
world  in  spite  of  the  storms  is  fair,  so  in  spite  of  evil 
God  is  good.  He  walked  on;  he  passed  the  bridge, 
but  liis  step  was  no  more  the  same,  —  he  forgot  his  rags. 
Why  should  he  be  ashamed  ?  And  thus,  in  the  very 
flush  of  this  new  and  strange  elation  and  elasticity  of 
spirit,  he  came  unawares  upon  a  group  of  young  men, 
lounging  before  the  porch  of  one  of  the  chief  hotels  in 
that  splendid  Eue  de  Rivoli,  wherein  wealth  and  the 
English  have  made  their  homes.  A  groom,  mounted, 
was  leading  another  horse  up  and  down  the  road,  and 
the  young  men  were  making  their  comments  of  approba- 
tion upon  both  the  horses,  especially  the  one  led,  which 
was,  indeed,  of  uncommon  beauty  and  great  value. 
Even  Morton,  in  whom  the  boyish  passion  of  his  earlier 
life  yet  existed,  paused  to  turn  his  experienced  and 
admiring  eye  upon  the  stately  shape  and  pace  of  the 
noble  animal,  and  as  he  did  so,  a  name  too  well  remem- 
bered came  upon  his  ear. 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  325 

"Certainly,  Arthur   Beaufort   is   the   most   enviable 
fellow  in  Europe !  " 

"Why,  yes,"  said  another  of  the  young  men;  "he 
has  plenty  of  money,  is  good-looking,  devilish  good- 
natured,  clever,  and  spends  like  a  prince." 
"  Has  the  best  horses!  " 
"  The  best  luck  at  roulette !  " 
"  The  prettiest  girls  in  love  with  him !  " 
"  And  no  one  enjoys  life  more.  Ah!  here  he  is!  " 
The  group  parted  as  a  light,  graceful  figure  came  out 
of  a  jeweller's  shop  that  adjoined  the  hotel,  and  halted 
gayly  amongst  the  loungers.  jVlorton's  first  impulse 
was  to  hurry  from  the  spot;  his  second  impulse  arrested 
his  step,  and,  a  little  apart,  and  half-hid  beneath  one  of 
the  arches  of  the  colonnade  which  adorns  the  street,  the 
outcast  gazed  upon  the  heir.  There  was  no  comparison 
in  the  natural  personal  advantages  of  the  two  young  men ; 
for  Philip  Morton,  despite  all  the  hardships  of  his 
rough  career,  had  now  grown  \;p  and  ripened  into  a  rare 
perfection  of  form  and  feature.  His  broad  chest,  his 
erect  air,  his  lithe  and  symmetrical  length  of  limb, 
united,  happily,  the  attributes  of  activity  and  strength; 
and  though  there  was  no  delicacy  of  youthful  bloom  upon 
his  dark  cheek,  and  though  lines  which  should  have 
come  later  marred  its  smoothness  with  the  signs  of  care 
and  thought,  yet  an  expression  of  intelligence  and 
daring,  equally  beyond  his  years,  and  the  evidence  of 
hardy,  abstemious,  vigorous  health,  served  to  show  to 
the  full  advantage  the  outline  of  features  which,  noble 
and  regular,  though  stern  and  masculine,  the  artist  might 
have  borrowed  for  his  ideal  of  a  young  Spartan  arming 
for  his  first  battle.  Arthur,  slight  to  feebleness,  and 
with  the  paleness,  partly  of  constitution,  partly  of  gay 
excess,  on  his  fair  and  clear  complexion,  had  features  far 


326  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

less  symmetricnl  and  impressive  than  his  cousin:  hut 
wliat  then  1  All  tliat  are  hestowod  by  elegance  of  dress, 
the  refinements  of  luxurious  habit,  the  nameless  grace 
that  comes  from  a  mind  and  a  manner  polished, — the 
one  by  literary  culture,  the  other  by  social  intercourse,  — 
invested  the  person  of  the  heir  with  a  fascination  that 
rude  nature  alone  ever  fails  to  give.  And  about  him 
there  was  a  gayety,  an  airiness  of  spirit,  an  atmosphere  of 
enjoyment,  which  bespoke  one  who  is  in  love  with  life. 

"  Why,  this  is  lucky!  I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you  all!  " 
said  Arthur  Beai;fort,  with  that  silver-ringing  tone, 
and  charming  smile,  which  are  to  the  liappy  spring  of 
man  what  its  music  and  its  sunshine  are  to  the  spring  of 
earth.  "  You  must  dine  with  me  at  Verey's.  I  want 
something  to  rouse  me  to-day;  for  I  did  not  get  home 
from  the  Salon  ^  till  four  this  morning." 

"  But  you  won  1  " 

"  Yes,  Marsden.  Hang  it!  I  always  win,  —  I  who 
could  so  well  afford  to  lose;  I'm  quite  ashamed  of  my 
luck!" 

"It  is  easy  to  spend  what  one  wins,"  observed  Mr. 
]\larsden,  sententiously ;  "  and  I  see  you  have  been  at  the 
jeweller's!  A  present  for  Cecile?  Well,  don't  blush, 
my  dear  fellow.     What  is  life  without  women?  " 

"  And  wine  1  "  said  a  second. 

"  And  play  ?  "  said  a  third. 

"  And  wealth?  "  said  a  fourth. 

"And  you  enjoy  them  all!  Happy  fellow!"  said  a 
fifth. 

The  outcast  pulled  his  hat  over  his  brows,  and  walked 
away. 

1  The  mofit  celebrated  gaming-house  in  Paris  in  the  day  before 
gaming-houses  were  suppressed  by  the  well-directed  energy  of  the 
government. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  327 

"This  dear  Paris!  "  said  Beaufort,  as  his  eye  care- 
lessly and  unconsciously  followed  the  dark  form 
retreating  through  the  arches,  —  "this  dear  Paris!  I 
must  make  the  most  of  it  while  I  stay!  I  have  only 
been  here  a  few  weeks,  and  next  week  I  must  go." 

"Pooh!  — your  health  is  better:  you  don't  look  like 
the  same  man." 

"You  think  so,  really?  Still  I  don't  know:  the 
doctors  say  that  I  must  either  go  to  the  German  waters, 
—  the  season  is  begun,  —  or  —  " 

"Or  what?" 

"Live  less  with  such  pleasant  companions,  my  dear 
fellow!     But  as  you  say,  what  is  life  without  —  " 

"Women!" 

"Wine!" 

«  Play !  " 

"  Wealth !  " 

"Ha!  ha!  *  Throw  physic  to  the  dogs:  I  '11  none  of 
it!  '  " 

And  Arthur  leaped  lightly  on  his  saddle,  and  as  he 
rode  gayly  on,  humming  the  favorite  air  of  the  last 
opera,  the  hoofs  of  his  horse  splashed  the  mud  over  a 
foot-passenger  halting  at  the  crossing.  Morton  checked 
the  fiery  exclamation  rising  to  his  lips;  and  gazing  after 
the  brilliant  form  that  hurried  on  towards  the  Champs 
Elysees,  his  eye  caught  the  statues  on  the  bridge,  and 
a  voice,  as  of  a  cheering  angel,  whispered  again  to  his 
heart,  "time,  faith,  energy!" 

The  expression  of  his  countenance  grew  calm  at  once, 
and,  as  he  continued  his  rambles,  it  was  with  a  mind 
that,  casting  off  the  burdens  of  the  past,  looked  serenely 
and  steadily  on  the  obstacles  and  hardships  of  the  future. 
We  have  seen  that  a  scruple  of  conscience,  or  of  pride,  not 
without  its  nobleness,  had  made  him  refuse  the  impor- 


328  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

tunities  of  Gawtrey  for  less  sordid  raiment;  the  saire 
feeling  made  it  his  custom  to  avoid  sharing  the  luxurious 
and  dainty  food  Avith  which  Gawtrey  was  wont  to  regale 
himself.  For  that  strange  man,  whose  wonderful  felicity 
of  temperament  and  constitution  rendered  him,  in  all 
circumstances,  keenly  alive  to  the  hearty  and  animal 
enjoyments  of  life,  would  still  emerge,  as  the  day 
declined,  from  their  wretched  apartment,  and,  trusting 
to  his  disguises,  in  which  indeed  he  possessed  a  masterly 
art,  repair  to  one  of  the  better  description  of  restaurants 
and  feast  away  his  cares  for  the  moment.  William 
Gawtrey  would  not  have  cared  three  straws  for  the  curse 
of  Damocles.  The  sword  over  his  head  would  never 
have  spoiled  his  appetite!  He  had  lately,  too,  taken  to 
drinking  much  more  deeply  than  he  had  been  used  to  do, 
—  the  fine  intellect  of  the  man  was  growing  thickened 
and  dulled ;  and  this  was  a  spectacle  that  Morton  could 
not  bear  to  contemplate.  Yet  so  great  was  Gawtrey's 
vigor  of  health,  that,  after  draining  wine  and  spirits 
enough  to  have  despatched  a  company  of  fox-hunters, 
and  after  betraying,  sometimes  in  uproarious  glee,  some- 
times in  maudlin  self-bewailings,  that  he  himself  was 
not  quite  invulnerable  to  the  thyrsus  of  the  god,  he 
would  —  on  any  call  on  his  energies,  or  especially  before 
departing  on  those  mysterious  expeditions  which  kept 
him  from  home  half,  and  sometimes  all  the  night  — 
plunge  his  head  into  cold  water,  drink  as  much  of  the 
lymph  as  a  groom  would  have  shuddered  to  bestow  on  a 
horse,  close  his  eyes  in  a  doze  for  half  an  hour,  and  wake, 
cool,  sober,  and  collected,  as  if  he  had  lived  according  to 
the  precepts  of  Socrates  or  Cornaro! 

But  to  return  to  Morton.  It  was  his  habit  to  avoid 
as  much  as  possible  sharing  the  good  cheer  of  his  com- 
panion; and  now,  as  he  entered  the  Champs  Elysees,  he 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  329 

saw  a  little  family,  consisting  of  a  young  mechanic,  Lis 
wife,  and  two  children,  who  with  that  love  of  harmless 
recreation  which  yet  characterizes  the  French,  had  taken 
advantage  of  a  holiday  in  the  craft,  and  were  enjoying 
their  simple  meal  under  the  shadow  of  the  trees. 
Whether  in  hunger  or  in  envy ,  Morton  paused  and  con- 
templated the  happy  group.  Along  the  road  rolled  the 
equipages  and  trampled  the  steeds  of  those  to  whom  all 
life  is  a  holiday.  T/iere,  was  pleasure,  —  under  those 
trees  was  happiness.  One  of  the  children,  a  little  boy 
of  about  six  years  old,  observing  the  attitude  and  gaze 
of  the  pausing  wayfarer,  ran  to  him,  and  holding  up  a 
fragment  of  a  coarse  kind  of  cake,  said  to  him  winningly, 
"Take  it,  —  I  have  had  enough!  "  The  child  reminded 
Morton  of  his  brother:  his  heart  melted  within  him, — 
he  lifted  the  young  Samaritan  in  his  arms,  and,  as  he 
kissed  him,  wept. 

The  mother  observed  and  rose  also.  She  laid  her 
hand  on  his  own,  "Poor  boy!  why  do  you  weep?  —  can 
we  relieve  you?  " 

Now  that  bright  gleam  of  human  nature,  suddenly 
darting  across  the  sombre  recollections  and  associations 
of  his  past  life,  seemed  to  Morton  as  if  it  came  from 
Heaven,  in  approval  and  in  blessing  of  this  attempt  at 
reconciliation  to  his  fate. 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  he,  placing  the  child  on  the 
ground,  and  passing  his  baud  over  his  eyes,  —  "I  thank 
you,  — yes!  Let  me  sit  down  amongst  you."  And  he 
sat  down,  the  child  by  his  side,  and  partook  of  their 
fare,  and  was  merry  with  them,  —  the  proud  Philip! 
Had  he  not  begun  to  discover  the  "  precious  jewel  "  in 
the  "  ugly  and  venomous  "  adversity  1 

The  mechanic,  though  a  gay  fellow  on  the  whole,  was 
not  without  some  of  that  discontent  of  his  station  which 


330  NIGHT   AND   MOIINING. 

is  common  with  his  class;  he  vented  it,  however,  not  in 
niurnuirs,  but  in  jests.  He  was  satirical  on  the  carriages 
and  the  horsemen  that  passed,  and,  lolling  on  the  grass, 
ridiculed  his  betters  at  his  ease. 

"Hush!  "  said  his  wife,  suddenly;  "here  comes 
Madame  de  ]\Ierville ;  "  and  rising  as  she  spoke,  she 
made  a  respectful  inclination  of  her  head  towards  an 
open  carriage  that  was  passing  very  slowly  towards  the 
town. 

"Madame  de  Merville!  "  repeated  the  husband,  rising 
also,  and  lifting  his  cap  from  his  head.  "Ah!  I  have 
nothing  to  say  against  her  !  " 

Morton  looked  instinctively  towards  the  carriage,  and 
saw  a  fair  countenance  turned  graciously  to  ansM'er  the 
silent  salutations  of  the  mechanic  and  his  wife,  — a  coiin- 
tenance  that  had  long  haunted  his  dreams,  though  of  late 
it  had  faded  away  beneath  harsher  thoughts,  the  coun- 
tenance of  the  stranger  whom  he  had  seen  at  the  bureau 
of  Gawtrey,  when  that  worthy  personage  had  borne  a 
more  mellifluous  name.  He  started  and  changed  color: 
the  lady  herself  now  seemed  suddenly  to  recognize  him ; 
for  their  eyes  met,  and  she  bent  forward  eagerly.  She 
pulled  the  check-string:  the  carriage  halted,  — she  beck- 
oned to  the  mechanic's  wife,  who  went  up  to  the 
road-side. 

"  I  worked  once  for  that  lady,"  said  the  man,  with  a 
tone  of  feeling;  "  and  when  my  wife  fell  ill  last  winter 
she  paid  the  doctors.  Ah,  she  is  an  angel  of  charity 
and  kindness!  " 

Morton  scarcely  heard  this  eulogium  ;  for  he  observed, 
by  something  eager  and  inquisitive  in  the  face  of 
Madame  de  Merville,  and  by  the  sudden  manner  in  which 
the  mechanic's  helpmate  turned  her  head  to  the  spot 
on  which  he  stood,  that  he  was  the  object  of  their  con- 


NIGHT  AND   MORNINQ.  331 

versation.  Once  more  he  became  suddenly  aware  of  his 
ragged  dress,  and  with  a  natural  shame,  —  a  fear  that 
charity  might  be  extended  to  him  from  her,  —  he  mut- 
tered an  abrupt  farewell  to  the  operative,  and,  without 
another  glance  at  the  carriage,  walked  away. 

Before  he  had  got  many  paces,  the  wife,  however, 
came  up  to  him,  breathless.  "  Madame  de  Merville 
would  speak  to  you,  sir  !  "  she  said,  with  more  respect 
than  she  had  hitherto  thrown  into  her  manner.  Philip 
paused  an  instant,  and  again  strode  on. 

"  It  must  be  some  mistake,"  he  said,  hurriedly:  "I 
have  no  right  to  expect  such  an  honor. " 

He  struck  across  the  road,  gained  the  opposite  side, 
and  had  vanished  from  JNIadame  de  Merville's  eyes, 
before  the  woman  regained  the  carriage.  But  still  that 
calm,  pale,  and  somewhat  melancholy  face,  presented 
itself  before  him ;  and,  as  he  walked  again  through  the 
town,  sweet  and  gentle  fancies  crowded  confusedly  on 
his  heart.  On  that  soft  summer  day,  memorable  for  so 
many  silent  but  mighty  events  in  that  inner  life  which 
prepares  the  catastrophes  of  the  outer  one, — as  in  the 
region  of  which  Virgil  has  sung  the  images  of  men  to 
be  born  hereafter  repose  or  glide,  —  on  that  soft  summer 
day  he  felt  he  had  reached  the  age  when  Youth  begins 
to  clothe  in  some  human  shane  its  first  vague  ideal  of 
desire  and  love. 

In  such  thoughts,  and  still  wandering,  the  day  wore 
away,  till  he  found  himself  in  one  of  the  lanes  tliat 
surround  that  glittering  IMicrocosm  of  the  vices,  the 
frivolities,  the  hollow  show,  and  the  real  beggary  of 
the  gay  city,  —  the  gardens  and  the  galleries  of  the  Palais 
Eoyal.  Surprised  at  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  —  it  was 
then  on  the  stroke  of  seven,  —  he  was  about  to  return 
homewards,  when  the  loud  voice  of   Gawtrey  sounded 


332  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

behind,  and  that  personage,  tapping  him  on  the  back, 
said,  — 

"  Hollo,  my  young  friend,  well  met!  This  will  be  a 
niglit  of  trial  to  you.  Empty  stomachs  produce  weak 
nerves.  Come  along!  you  must  dine  Avith  me.  A  good 
dinner  and  a  bottle  of  old  wine, — come!  nonsense,  I 
say  you  shall  come!    Vive  la  jole  !  " 

While  speaking,  he  had  linked  his  arm  in  Morton's, 
and  hurried  him  on  several  paces  in  spite  of  his  strug- 
gles; but  just  as  the  words  Vive  la  jole  left  his  lips,  he 
stood  still  and  mute,  as  if  a  thunderbolt  had  fallen  at 
his  feet;  and  Morton  felt  that  heavy  arm  shiver  and 
tremble  like  a  leaf.  He  looked  up,  and  just  at  the 
entrance  of  that  part  of  the  Palais  Royal  in  which  are 
situated  the  restaurants  of  Verey  and  Vefour,  he  saw 
two  men  standing  but  a  few  paces  before  them,  and 
gazing  full  on  Gawtrey  and  himself. 

"It  is  my  evil  genius,"  muttered  Gawtrey,  grinding 
his  teeth. 

"  And  mine !  "  said  Morton. 

The  younger  of  the  two  men  thus  apostrophized  made 
a  step  towards  Philip,  when  his  companion  drew  him 
back  and  whispered,  "What  are  you  about?  Do  you 
know  that  young  man  ?  " 

"  He  is  my  cousin;  Philip  Beaufort's  natural  son!  " 
"  Is  he?  —  then  discard  him  forever.     He  is  with  the 
most  dangerous  knave  in  Europe !  " 

As  Lord  Lilburne  —  for  it  was  he  —  thus  whispered 
his  nephew,  Gawtrey  strode  up  to  him,  and,  glaring 
full  in  his  face,  said  in  a  deep  and  hollow  tone:  "  There 
is  a  hell,  my  lord, — I  go  to  drink  to  our  meeting!  " 
Thus  saying,  he  took  off  his  hat  with  a  ceremonious 
mockery,  and  disappeared  within  the  adjoining  restau- 
rant kept  by  Vefour. 


NIGHT   AND    MOKNING.  333 

"A  hell !  ^  said  Lilburne,  with  his  frigid  smile; 
"  the  rogue's  head  runs  upon  (jamhling-houses  !  " 

"And  I  have  suffered  Philip  again  to  escape  me," 
said  Arthur,  in  self-reproach:  for  while  Gawtrey  hud 
addressed  Lord  Lilburne,  Morton  had  plunged  back 
amidst  the  labyrinth  of  alleys.  "  How  have  I  kept  my 
oath  ?  " 

"  Come!  your  guests  must  have  arrived  by  this  time. 
As  for  that  wretched  young  man,  depend  upon  it  that  he 
is  corrupted  body  and  soul. " 

"  But  he  is  my  own  cousin." 

"Pooh!  there  is  no  relationship  in  natural  children: 
besides,  he  will  find  you  out  fast  enough.  Ragged 
claimants  are  not  long  too  proud  to  beg. " 

"  You  speak  in  earnest?  "  said  Arthur,  irresolutely. 

"  Ay !  trust  my  experience  of  the  world,  —  allons  !  " 

And  in  a  cabinet  of  the  very  restaurant  adjoining 
that  in  which  the  solitary  Gawtrey  gorged  his  con- 
science, Lilburne,  Arthur,  and  their  gay  friends,  soon 
forgetful  of  all  but  the  roses  of  the  moment,  bathed 
their  airy  spirits  in  the  dews  of  the  mirthful  wine.  Oh, 
extremes  of  life!     Oh,  Night!      Oh,  Morning! 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

PART  SECOND. 


"^' 


Lahe  Windermere. 

Drawn  and  etched  by  Louis  K.  Harlow. 
Night  and  Morning. 


NIGHT    AND   MORNING. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

Meantime  a  moving  scene  was  open  laid, 
That  lazar-house. 

Thomson  :  Castle  of  Indolence. 

It  was  near  midnight.  At  the  mouth  of  the  lane  in 
which  Gawtrey  resided  there  stood  four  men.  Not  far 
distant,  in  the  broad  street  at  angles  with  the  lane,  were 
heard  the  Avheels  of  carriages  and  the  sound  of  music. 
A  lady,  fair  in  form,  tender  of  heart,  stainless  in  repute, 
was  receiving  her  friends! 

"  Monsieur  Favart, "  said  one  of  the  men  to  the 
smallest  of  the  four,  "  you  understand  the  conditions,  — 
20, 000  francs  and  a  free  pardon  ?  " 

"  Nothing  more  reasonable,  —  it  is  understood.  Still 
I  confess  that  I  should  like  to  have  my  men  close  at 
hand.  I  am  not  given  to  fear;  but  this  is  a  dangerous 
experiment. " 

"  You  knew  the  danger  beforehand  and  subscribed  to 
it ;  you  must  enter  alone  with  me,  or  not  at  all.  Mark 
you,  the  men  are  sworn  to  murder  him  who  betrays 
them.  Not  for  twenty  times  20,000  francs  would  I 
have  them  know  me  as  the  informer.  My  life  were 
not  worth  a  day's  purchase.  Now,  if  you  feel  secure  in 
your  disguise,  all  is  safe.      You  will  have  seen  them  at 

VOL.  II.  —  1 


2  KIGIIT   AND    MORNING. 

their  work;  you  will  recognize  their  persons;  you  can 
depose  against  them  at  the  trial,  —  I  shall  have  time  to 
quit  France." 

"  Well,  well !  as  you  please. " 

"  Mind,  you  must  wait  in  the  vault  with  them  till  they 
separate.  We  have  so  planted  your  men  that  whatever 
street  each  of  the  gang  takes  in  going  home,  he  can  be 
seized,  quietly  and  at  once.  The  bravest  and  craftiest  of 
all,  who,  though  he  has  but  just  joined,  is  already  their 
captain:  him,  the  man  I  told  you  of,  who  lives  in  the 
house,  you  must  take  after  his  return,  in  his  bed.  It  is 
the  sixth  story  to  the  right,  remember:  here  is  the  key 
to  his  door.  He  is  a  giant  in  strength,  and  will  never 
be  taken  alive  if  up  and  armed." 

"  Ah,  I  comprehend !  —  Gilbert !  "  (and  Favart  turned 
to  one  of  his  companions  who  had  not  yet  spoken), 
"  take  three  men  besides  yourself,  according  to  the  direc- 
tions I  gave  you ;  the  porter  will  admit  you,  that 's 
arranged.  Make  no  noise.  If  I  don't  return  by  four 
o'clock,  don't  wait  for  me,  but  proceed  at  once.  Look 
well  to  your  primings.  Take  him  alive,  if  possible,  — 
at  the  worst,  dead.     And  now,  mon  ami,  lead  on!  " 

The  traitor  nodded,  and  walked  slowly  down  the 
street.  Favart,  ])ausing,  whispered  hastily  to  the  man 
whom  he  had  called  Gilbert,  — 

"  Follow  me  close ;  get  to  the  door  of  the  cellar ;  place 
eight  men  within  hearing  of  my  whistle;  recollect  the 
picklocks,  —  the  axes.  If  you  hear  the  whistle,  break 
in;  if  not,  I'm  safe,  and  the  first  orders  to  seize  the 
cajjtain  in  his  room  stand  good." 

80  saying,  Favart  strode  after  his  guide.  The  door  of 
a  large  but  ill-favored-looking  house  stood  ajar;  they 
entered,  passed  unmolested  through  a  courtyard,  de- 
scended some  stairs;  the  guide  unlocked  the   door  of  a 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  O 

cellar,  and  took  a  dark  lantern  from  under  his  cloak.     As 
he  drew  up  the  slide,  the  dim  light  gleamed  on  barrels 
and  wine-casks,    which   appeared  to  fill   up    the    space. 
Rolling  aside  one  of  these,  the  guide  lifted  a  trap-door, 
and  lowered  his  lantern.      "Enter,"    said  he;    and    the 
two  men  disappeared. 
. 
The  coiners  were  at  their  work.     A  man,  seated  on  a 
stool  before  a  desk,    was   entering  accounts  in    a  large 
book.     That  man  was  William  Gawtrey.     While,  with 
the  rapid  precision  of  honest  mechanics,  the  machinery 
of   the   dark  trade  went  on  in  its  several  departments. 
Apart,  alone,   at  the  foot   of   a   long    table,    sat   Philip 
Morton.     The  truth  had  exceeded  his  darkest  suspicions. 
He  had  consented  to  take  the  oath  not  to  divulge  what 
was  to  be  given  to  his  survey ;  and  when,  led  into  that 
vault,  the  bandage  was  taken  from  his  eyes,  it  was  some 
minutes  before  he  could  fully  comprehend  the  desperate 
and  criminal  occupations  of  the  wild  forms  amidst  which 
towered   the   burly   stature  of  his   benefactor.     As    the 
truth  slowly  grew  upon  him,  he  shrank  from  the  side  of 
Gawtrey ;  but,  deep  compassion  for  his  friend's  degrada- 
tion swallowing  up  the  horror  of  the  trade,  he  flung  him- 
self on  one  of  the  rude  seats,    and   felt  that  the  bond 
between  them  was  indeed  broken,    and   that  the   next 
morning  he  should  be  again  alone  in  the  world.     Still,  as 
the  obscene  jests,  the  fearful  oaths,  that  from  time  to  time 
rang  through  the  vault,  came  on  his  ear,  he  cast  his  haughty 
eye    in   such    disdain    over    the    groups   that    Gawtrey, 
observing   him,    trembled   for   his    safety;    and   nothing 
but  Philip's  sense  of  his  own  impotence,  and  the  brave, 
not  timorous,   desire  not  to  perish  by  such  hands,  kept 
silent  the  fiery  denunciations  of  a  nature,  still  proud  and 
honest,    that   quivered   on   his   lips.     All  present  were 


4  NIGHT   AND   MOKNING. 

armed  with  pistols  and  cutlasses  except  Morton,  who 
suffered  the  weapons  presented  to  him  to  lie  unheeded  on 
the  table. 

"  Courage,  mes  amis !  "  said  Gawtrey,  closing  his 
book,  —  "  courage  !  A  few  months  more,  and  we  shall 
have  made  enough  to  retire  upon,  and  enjoy  ourselves 
for  the  rest  of  the  days.     Where  is  Birnie  1  " 

"  Did  he  not  tell  you  1  "  said  one  of  the  artisans, 
looking  up.  "  He  has  found  out  the  cleverest  hand  in 
France,  —  the  very  fellow  who  helped  Bouchard  in  all  his 
five-franc  pieces.   He  has  promised  to  bring  him  to-night. " 

"  Ay,  I  remember, "  returned  Gawtrey,  "  he  told  me 
this  mornuig,  — he  is  a  famous  decoy!  " 

"  I  think  so,  indeed !  "  quoth  a  coiner :  "  for  he  caught 
you,  the  best  head  to  our  hands  that  ever  les  mdustriels 
were  blessed  with, —  sacre  fichtre  !  " 

"  Flatterer !  "  said  Gawtrey,  coming  from  the  desk  to 
the  table,  and,  pouring  out  wine  from  one  of  the  bottles 
into  a  huge  flagon,  —  "  To  your  healths  !  " 

Here  the  door  slided  hark  and  Birnie  glided  in. 

"  ^Vliere  is  your  booty,  man  brave  ?  "  said  Gawtrey. 
"  We  only  coin  money :  you  coin  men,  stamp  with  your 
own  seal,  and  send  them  current  to  the  devil !  " 

The  coiners,  who  liked  Birnie's  abiUty  (for  the  ci^e- 
vant  engraver  was  of  admirable  skill  in  their  craft), 
but  who  hated  his  joyless  manners,  laughed  at  this  taunt, 
which  Birnie  did  not  seem  to  heed,  except  by  a  malignant 
gleam  of  his  dead  eye. 

"  If  you  mean  the  celebrated  coiner,  Jacques  Girau- 
mont,  he  waits  without.  You  know  our  rules, —  I  can- 
not admit  him  without  leave, " 

"  Bon!  we  give  it, —  eh,  messieurs?  "  said  Gawtrey. 

"  Ay,  ay, "  cried  several  voices.  "  He  knows  the 
oath,  and  will  hear  the  penalty." 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  5 

"  Yes,  he  knows  the  oath, "  replied  Birnie,  and  glided 
back. 

In  a  moment  more  he  returned  with  a  small  man  in 
a  mechanic's  blouse.  The  new-comer  wore  the  republican 
beard  and  mustache,  of  a  sandy  gray ;  his  hair  was  the 
same  color,  and  a  black  patch  over  one  eye  increased  the 
ill-favored  appearance  of  his  features. 

"  Diable!  Monsieur  Giraumont!  but  you  are  more 
like  Vulcan  than  Adonis !  "  said  Gawtrey. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  alDOut  Vulcan,  but  I  know  how 
to  make  five-franc  pieces,"  said  Monsieur  Giraumont, 
doggedly. 

"  Are  you  poor  ?  " 

"  As  a  church  mouse, —  the  only  thing  belonging  to  a 
church,  since  the  Bourbons  came  back,  that  is  poor!  " 

At  this  sally  the  coiners,  who  had  gathered  round  the 
table,  uttered  the  shout  with  which,  in  all  circumstances, 
Frenchmen  receive  a  ho7i  mot. 

"  Humph !  "  said  Gawtrey.  "  Who  responds  with 
his  own  life  for  your  fidelity  1  " 

"I,"  said  Birnie. 

"  Administer  the  oath  to  him. " 

Suddenly  four  men  advanced,  seized  the  visitor,  and 
bore  him  from  the  vault  into  another  one  within.  After 
a  few  moments  they  returned. 

"  He  has  taken  the  oath  and  heard  the  penalty. " 

"  Death  to  yourself,  your  wife,  your  son,  and  your 
grandson,   if  you  betray  us !  " 

"  I  have  neither  son  nor  grandson ;  as  for  my  wife. 
Monsieur  le  Capitaine,  you  offer  a  bribe  instead  of  a 
threat  when  you  talk  of  her  death !  " 

"  Sacre  !  but  you  will  be  an  addition  to  our  circle,  mon 
brave  !  "  said  Gawtrey,  laughing ;  while  again  the  grim 
circle  shouted  applause. 


6  NIGHT  AND   MOKNING. 

"  But  I  suppose  you  care  for  your  own  life  ?  " 

"  Otherwise  I  should  have  preferred  starving  to  coming 
here,"  answered  the  laconic  neophj'te. 

"  I  have  done  with  you.     Your  health!  " 

On  this  the  coiners  gathered  round  Monsieur  Girau- 
mont,  shook  him  by  the  hand,  and  commenced  many 
questions  with  a  view  to  ascertain  his  skill. 

"  Show  me  your  coinage  first ;  I  see  you  use  both  the 
die  and  the  furnace.  Hem!  this  piece  is  not  bad:  you 
have  struck  it  from  an  iron  die  ?  —  right :  it  makes  the 
impression  sharper  than  plaster-of-Paris.  But  you  take 
the  poorest  and  the  most  dangerous  part  of  the  trade 
in  taking  the  Home  Market.  I  can  put  you  in  a  way 
to  make  ten  times  as  much, —  and  with  safety!  Look 
at  this !  "  —  and  Monsieur  Giraumont  took  a  forged 
Spanish  dollar  from  his  pocket,  so  skilfully  manufac- 
tured that  the  connoisseurs  were  lost  in  admiration, — 
"  You  may  pass  thousands  of  these  all  over  Europe, 
except  France,  and  who  is  ever  to  detect  you  1  But  it 
will  require  better  machinery  than  you  have  here." 

Thus  conversing.  Monsieur  Giraumont  did  not  per- 
ceive that  Mr.  Gawtrey  had  been  examining  him  very 
curiously  and  minutely.  But  Birnie  had  noted  their 
chief's  attention,  and  once  attempted  to  join  his  new 
ally,  when  Gawtrey  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder  and 
stopped  him. 

"  Do  not  speak  to  your  friend  till  I  bid  you,  or  —  " 
he  stopped  short  and  touched  his  pistols. 

Birnie  grew  a  shade  more  pale,  but  replied  with  his 
usual  sneer, — 

"  Suspicious !  —  well  so  much  the  better !  "  and  seating 
himself  carelessly  at  the  table,  lighted  his  pipe. 

"  And  now,  Monsieur  Giraumont, "  said  Gawtrey,  as 
he  took    the    head    of   the    table,     "  come    to  my  right 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  7 

hand.      A    half    holiday    in    your  honor.      Clear    these 
infernal  instrnments,  and  more  wine,  mes  amis !  " 

The  party  arranged  themselves  at  the  table.  Among 
the  desperate  there  is  almost  invariably  a  tendency  to 
mirth.  A  solitary  ruffian,  indeed,  is  moody,  but  a  gang 
of  ruffian.'^;  are  jovial.  The  coiners  talked  and  laughed 
loud.  ]\Ir.  Birnie,  from  his  dogged  silence,  seemed  apart 
from  the  rest,  though  in  the  centre;  for  in  a  noisy 
circle  a  silent  tongue  builds  a  wall  round  its  owner. 
But  that  respectable  personage  kept  his  furtive  watch 
upon  Giraumont  and  Gawtrey,  who  appeared  talking 
together  very  amicably.  The  younger  novice  of  that 
night,  equally  silent,  seated  towards  the  bottom  of  the 
table,  was  not  less  watcliful  than  Birnie.  An  uneasy, 
undefinable  foreboding  had  come  over  him  since  the 
entrance  of  Monsieur  Giraumont ;  this  had  been  increased 
by  the  manner  of  ]\Ir.  Gawtrey.  His  faculty  of  observa- 
tion, which  was  very  acute,  had  detected  something 
false  in  the  chief's  blandness  to  their  guest, —  something 
dangerous  in  the  glittering  eye  that  Gawtrey  ever,  as  he 
spoke  to  Giraumont,  bent  on  that  person's  lips  as  he 
listened  to  his  reply;  for  whenever  William  Ga^vtrey 
suspected  a  man,  he  watched  not  his  eyes,  but  his 
lips. 

Waked  from  his  scornful  reverie,  a  strange  spell 
chained  Morton's  attention  to  the  chief  and  the  guest, 
and  he  bent  forward,  with  parted  mouth  and  straining 
ear,  to  catch   their  conversation. 

"  It  seems  to  me  a  little  strange, "  said  Mr.  Gawtrey, 
raising  his  voice  so  as  to  be  heard  by  the  party,  "  that 
a  coiner  so  dexterous  as  Monsieur  Giraumont  should  not 
be  known  to  any  of  us  except  our  friend  Birnie." 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  Giraumont:  "I  worked  only 
with  Bouchard  and  two  others,  since  sent  to  the  galleys. 


8  NIGHT   AND   JIORNING. 

We  were  hut  a  small  fraternity,  —  everything  has  its 
commencement. " 

"  C^est  juste  :  biivez,  done,  cher  ami  !  "  ^ 

The  wine  circulated,    Gawtrey  hegan  again. 

"  You  have  had  a  bad  accident,  seemingly,  Monsieur 
Giraumont, —  how  did  you  lose  your  eye?  " 

"  In  a  scuffle  with  the  (/eris  (V arm.es  the  night  Bouchard 
was  taken  and  I  escaped:  such  misfortunes  are  on  the 
cards. " 

"  C^est  juste :  buvez,  done,  Monsieur  Giraumont !  "  ^ 

Again  there  was  a  pause,  and  again  Gawtrey 's  deep 
voice  was  heard. 

"  You  wear  a  wig,  I  think,  Monsieur  Giraumont  ?  — 
to  judge  by  your  eyelashes,  your  own  hair  has  been  a 
liandsomer  color. " 

"  We  seek  disguise,  not  beauty,  my  host !  and  the 
police  have  sharp   eyes." 

"  C'est  juste,  buvez,  done,  vieux  Renard  !^  —  when 
did  we  two  meet  last  ?  " 

"  Never,  that  1  know  of  !  " 

"  Ce  n'est  jms  vrai!  huvez,  done,  MONSIEUR 
FA  V ART  I  ""^ 

At  the  sound  of  that  name  the  company  started  in 
dismay  and  confusion,  and  the  police  officer,  forgetting 
himself  for  the  moment,  sprung  from  his  seat,  and  put 
his  right  hand  into  his  blouse. 

"  Ho,  there,  treason !  "  cried  Gawtrey,  in  a  voice 
of  thunder;  and  he  caught  the  unhappy  man  by  the 
throat. 

It  was  the   work  of  a  moment.     Morton,    where  he 

1  That  'h  right :  drink,  then,  dear  friend. 

2  That 's  right ;  drink,  then,  Monsieur  Giraumont. 
8  That 's  right :  drink,  then,  old  fox. 

*  That  'a  not  true  :  drink,  then,  Monsieur  Favart. 


NIGHT   AND    MOKNING.  9 

sat,  beheld  a  struggle,  he  heard  a  death-cry.  He  saw 
the  huge  form  of  the  master-coiner  rishig  above  all  the 
rest  as  cutlasses  gleamed  and  eyes  sparkled  round.  He 
saw  the  quivering  and  powerless  frame  of  the  unhappy 
guest  raised  aloft  in  those  mighty  arms,  and  presently 
it  was  hurled  along  the  table,  —  bottles  crashing,  the 
board  shaking  beneath  its  weight,  —  and  lay  before  the 
very  eyes  of  Morton  a  distorted  and  lifeless  mass.  At 
the  same  instant  Gawtrey  sprang  upon  the  table,  his 
l)lack  frown  singling  out  from  the  group  the  ashen, 
cadaverous  face  of  the  shrinking  traitor.  Birnie  had 
darted  from  the  table ;  he  was  half-way  towards  the 
sliding  door;  his  face,  turned  over  his  shoulder,  met 
the  eyes  of  the  chief. 

"  Devil !  "  shouted  Gawtrey,  in  his  terrible  voice, 
which  the  echoes  of  the  vault  gave  back  from  side  to 
side,  "  did  I  not  give  thee  up  my  soul  that  thou 
mightest  not  compass  my  death?  Hark  ye!  thus  die 
my  slavery  and  all  our  secrets!  "  The  explosion  of 
his  pistol  half  swallowed  up  the  last  word,  and  with 
a  single  groan  the  traitor  fell  on  the  floor,  pierced 
through  the  brain.  Then  there  was  a  dead  and  grim 
hush  as  the  smoke  rolled  slowly  along  the  roof  of  the 
dreary  vault. 

Morton  sank  back  on  his  seat  and  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands.  The  last  seal  on  the  fate  of  The  Man 
OF  Crime  was  set;  the  last  wave  in  the  terrible  and 
mysterious  tide  of  his  destiny  had  dashed  on  his  soul 
to  the  shore  whence  there  is  no  return.  Vain,  now  and 
henceforth,  the  humor,  the  sentiment,  the  kindly  impulse, 
the  social  instincts,  which  had  invested  that  stalwart 
shape  with  dangerous  fascination,  which  had  implied 
the  hope  of  ultimate  repentance,  of  redemption  even  in 
this  world.      The  Hour  and  the  Circumstance  had 


10  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

seized  their  prey;  and  the  self-defence,  which  a  lawless 
career  rendered  a  necessity,  left  the  eternal  die  of  blood 
upon  his  doom ! 

"  Friends,  I  have  saved  you, "  said  Gawtrey,  slowly, 
gazing  on  the  corpse  of  his  second  victim,  while  he  re- 
turned the  pistol  to  his  belt :  "  I  have  not  quailed  before 
this  man's  eye, "  and  he  spurned  the  clay  of  the  officer 
as  he  spoke  with  a  revengeful  scorn ,  "  without  treasur- 
ing up  its  aspect  in  my  heart  of  hearts.  I  knew  him 
when  he  entered,  knew  him  through  his  disguise, —  yet, 
faith,  it  was  a  clever  one !  Turn  up  his  face  and  gaze  on 
him  noAv;  he  will  never  terrify  us  again,  unless  there  be 
truth  in  ghosts !  " 

Murmuring  and  tremulous,  the  coiners  scrambled  on 
the  table  and  examined  the  dead  man.  From  this  task 
Gawtrey  interrupted  them,  for  his  quick  eye  detected, 
with  the  pistols  vuider  the  policeman's  blouse,  a  whistle 
of  metal  of  curious  construction,  and  he  conjectured  at 
once  that  danger  was  yet  at  hand. 

"  I  have  saved  you,  I  say,  but  only  for  the  hour. 
This  deed  cannot  sleep:  see,  he  had  help  within  call. 
The  police  know  where  to  look  for  their  comrade, —  we 
are  dispersed.  Each  for  himself.  Quick,  divide  the 
spoils  !     Sauve  qui  pent  !  " 

Then  Morton  heard  where  he  sat,  his  hands  still  clasped 
before  his  face,  a  confused  hubbub  of  voices,  the  jingle  of 
money,  the  scrambling  of  feet,  the  creaking  of  doors, — 
all  was  silent! 

A  strong  grasp  drew  his  hands  from  his  eyes. 

"Your  first  scene  of  life  against  life,"  said  Gawtrey 's 
voice,  which  seemed  fearfully  changed  to  the  ear  that 
heard  it.  "  Bah !  what  would  you  think  of  a  battle  ? 
Come  to  our  eyrie :  the  carcasses  are  gone. " 

Morton    looked   fearfully    round  the  vault.     He  and 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  11 

Gawtrey  were  alone.  His  eyes  sought  the  places  where 
the  dead  had  lain:  they  were  removed, —  no  vestige  of 
the  deeds,  not  even  a  drop  of  blood. 

"  Come,  take  up  your  cutlass,  come !  "  repeated  the 
voice  of  the  chief,  as  with  his  dim  lantern,  now  the  sole 
light  of  the  vault,  he  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  doorway. 

Morton  rose,  took  up  tlie  weapon  mechanically,  and 
followed  that  terrible  guide,  mute  and  unconscious,  as 
a  soul  follows  a  dream  through  the  house  of  sleep ! 


12  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 


CHAPTER    X. 

Sleep  no  more  !  —  Macbeth. 

After  winding  through  gloomy  and  labyrinthine  pas- 
sages which  conducted  to  a  different  range  of  cellars  from 
those  entered  by  the  unfortunate  Favart,  Gawtrey 
emerged  at  the  foot  of  a  flight  of  stairs,  which,  dark, 
narrow,  and  in  many  places  broken,  had  been  probably 
appropriated  to  servants  of  the  house  in  its  days  of 
palmier  glory.  By  these  steps  the  pair  regained  their 
attic.  Gawtrey  placed  the  lantern  on  the  table,  and 
seated  himself  in  silence.  Morton,  who  had  recovered 
his  self-possession  and  formed  his  resolution,  gazed  on 
him  for  some  moments  equally  taciturn;  at  length  he 
spoke, — 

"Gawtrey!" 

"  I  bade  you  not  call  me  by  that  name,"  said  the 
coiner;  for  we  need  scarcely  say  that  in  his  new  trade 
he  had  assumed  a  new  appellation. 

"  It  is  the  least  guilty  one  by  which  I  have  known 
you,"  returned  Morton,  firmly;  "  it  is  for  the  last  time 
I  call  you  by  it!  I  demanded  to  see  by  what  means 
one  to  whom  I  had  intrusted  my  fate  supported  himself. 
I  have  seen,"  continued  the  young  man,  still  firmly  but 
with  a  livid  cheek  and  lip,  "and  the  tie  between  us  is 
rent  forever.  Interrupt  me  not!  it  is  not  for  me  to 
blame  you.  I  have  eaten  of  your  bread  and  drank  of 
your  cup.  Confiding  in  you  too  blindly,  and  believing 
that  you  were  at  least  free  from  those  dark  and  terrible 
crimes  for  which  there  is  no  expiation,  —  at  least  in  this 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  13 

life, — my  conscience,  seared  by  distress,  my  very  soul 
made  dormant  by  despair,  I  surrendered  myself  to  one 
leading  a  career  equivocal,  suspicious,  dishonorable, 
perliaps,  but  still  not,  as  I  believed,  of  atrocity  and 
bloodshed.  I  wake  at  the  brink  of  the  abyss,  —  my 
mother's  hand  beckons  to  me  from  the  grave;  I  think  I 
hear  her  voice  while  I  address  you  j  I  recede  while  it  is 
yet  time, —  we  part,  and  forever!  " 

Gawtrey,  whose  stormy  passion  was  still  deep  upon 
his  soul,  had  listened  hitherto  in  sullen  and  dogged 
silence,  with  a  gloomy  frown  on  his  knitted  brow.  He 
now  rose  with  an  oath,  — 

"  Part,  that  I  may  let  loose  on  the  world  a  new 
traitor!  Part,  when  you  have  seen  me  fresh  from  an 
act  that,  once  whispered,  gives  me  to  the  guillotine! 
Part,  never,  —  at  least  alive !  " 

"  I  have  said  it,"  said  Morton,  folding  his  arms  calmly; 
"  I  say  it  to  your  face,  though  I  might  part  from  you  in 
secret.  Frown  not  on  me,  man  of  blood !  I  am  fearless 
as  yourself!     In  another  minute  I  am  gone." 

"  Ah !  is  it  so  ?  "  said  Gawtrey ;  and  glancing  round  the 
room,  which  contained  two  doors,  — the  one  concealed 
by  the  draperies  of  a  bed,  communicating  with  the  stairs 
by  which  they  had  entered,  the  other  with  the  landing 
of  the  principal  and  common  flight:  he  turned  to  the 
former,  within  his  reach,  which  he  locked,  and  put  the 
key  into  his  pocket,  and  then,  throwing  across  the  latter 
a  heavy  swing-bar,  which  fell  into  its  socket  with  a 
harsh  noise,  before  the  threshold  he  placed  his  vast 
bulk,  and  burst  into  his  loud,  fierce  laugh:  "Ho!  ho! 
slave  and  fool,  once  mine,  you  are  mine,  body  and  soul, 
forever!  " 

"  Tempter,  I  defy  you!  stand  back!  "  And,  firm  and 
dauntless,  Morton  laid  his  hand  on  the  giant's  vest. 


14  NIGHT   AND   MOllNING. 

Gawtrey  seemed  more  astonished  than  enraged.  He 
looked  hard  at  his  daring  associate,  on  whose  lip  the 
down  was  yet  scarcely  dark. 

"  Boy,"  said  he,  "  ofi'!  Do  not  rouse  the  devil  in  me 
again!     I  could  crush  you  with  a  hug." 

"  My  soul  supports  my  body,  and  I  am  armed,"  said 
Morton,  laying  hand  on  his  cutlass.  "  But  you  dare 
not  harm  me,  nor  I  you.  Blood-stained  as  you  are,  you 
gave  me  shelter  and  bread;  but  accuse  me  not  tliat  I 
will  save  my  soul  while  it  is  yet  time!  Shall  my 
motlier  have  blessed  me  in  vain  upon  her  deathbed  1  " 

Gawtrey  drew  back,  and  Morton,  by  a  sudden  impulse, 
grasped  his  hand. 

"Oh!  hear  me, — hear  me!"  he  cried,  with  great 
emotion.  "  Abandon  this  horrible  career;  you  have 
been  decoyed  and  betrayed  to  it  by  one  who  can  deceive 
or  terrify  you  no  more!  Abandon  it,  and  I  will  never 
desert  you.  For  her  sake  —  for  your  Fanny's  sake  — 
pause,  like  me,  before  the  gulf  swallow  us.  Let  us  fly! 
—  far  to  the  New  World  —  to  any  land  where  our  thews 
and  sinews,  our  stout  hands  and  hearts,  can  find  an 
honest  mart.  Men,  desperate  as  we  are,  have  yet  risen 
by  honest  means.  Take  her,  your  orphan,  with  us. 
We  will  work  for  her,  both  of  us.  Gawtrey!  hear  me. 
It  is  not  my  voice  that  speaks  to  you,  —  it  is  your  good 
angel's!  " 
Gawtrey  fell  back  against  the  wall,  and  his  chest  heaved. 
"  Morton,"  he  said,  with  choked  and  tremulous 
accents,  "go  now;  leave  me  to  my  fate!  I  have  sinned 
against  you,  —  shamefully  sinned.  It  seemed  to  me  so 
sweet  to  have  a  friend :  in  your  youth  and  character  of 
mind  there  was  so  much  about  which  the  tough  strings 
of  my  heart  wound  themselves,  that  I  could  not  bear  to 
lose  you,  —  to  suffer  you  to  know  me  for  what  I  was.     I 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  15 

blinded  —  I  deceived  you  as  to  ray  past  deeds;  that  was 
base  in  me :  but  1  swore  to  my  own  heart  to  keep  you 
unexposed  to  every  danger,  and  free  from  every  vice 
that  darkened  my  own  path.  I  kept  that  oath  till  this 
night,  when,  seeing  that  you  began  to  recoil  from  me, 
and  dreading  that  you  should  desert  me,  1  thought  to 
bind  you  to  me  forever  by  implicating  you  in  this  fel- 
lowship of  crime.  I  am  punished,  and  justly.  Go,  I 
repeat,  —  leave  me  to  the  fate  that  strides  nearer  and 
nearer  to  me  day  by  day.  You  are  a  boy  still,  I  am  no 
longer  young.  Habit  is  a  second  nature.  Still  —  still 
I  could  repent:  I  could  begin  life  again.     But  repose! 

—  to  look  back,  to  remember,  to  be  haunted  night  and 
day  with  deeds  that  shall  meet  me  bodily,  and  face  to 
face ,  on  the  last  day  —  " 

"  Add  not  to  the  spectres!  Come:  fly  this  night,  this 
hour!" 

Gawtrey  paused,  irresolute  and  wavering,  when  at 
that  moment  he  heard  steps  on  the  stairs  below.  He 
started,  —  as  starts  the  boar  caught  in  his  lair, — and 
listened,  pale  and  breathless. 

"  Hush !  —  they  are  on  us !  —  they  come !  "  As  he 
whispered,  the  key  from  without  turned  in  the  wards,  — ■ 
the   door   shook.      "Soft!  —  the  bar  preserves  us  both, 

—  this  way ;  "  and  the  coiner  crept  to  the  door  of  the 
private  stairs.  He  unlocked  and  opened  it  cautiously. 
A  man  sprang  through  the  aperture :  — 

"  Yield!  —  you  are  my  prisoner!  " 

"Never!"  cried  Gawtrey,  hurling  back  the  intruder, 
and  clapping  to  the  door,  though  other  and  stout  men 
were  pressing  against  it  with  all  their  power. 

"  Ho!  ho!     Who  shall  open  the  tiger's  cage?  " 

At  both  doors  now  were  heard  the  sounds  of  voices. 
"  Open  in  the  king's  name,  or  expect  no  mercy!  " 


16  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

"Hist!"  said  Gawtrey.  "One  way  yet;  the  win- 
dow, the  rope." 

Morton  opened  the  casement,  Gawtrey  uncoiled  the 
rope.  The  dawn  was  hreaking;  it  was  light  in  the 
streets,  but  all  seemed  quiet  without.  The  doors 
reeled  and  shook  beneath  the  pressure  of  the  pursuers. 
Gawtrey  flung  the  rope  across  the  street  to  the  opposite 
parapet;  after  two  or  three  efforts,  the  grappling-hook 
caught  firm  hold ,  —  the  perilous  path  was  made. 

"On! — quick!  —  loiter  not!"  whispered  Gawtrey. 
"  You  are  active;  it  seems  more  dangerous  than  it  is,  — 
cling  with  both  hands;  shut  your  eyes.  When  on  the 
other  side,  you  see  the  window  of  Birnie's  room,  enter 
it,  descend  the  stairs,  let  yourself  out,  and  you  are 
safe." 

"Go  first,"  said  Morton,  in  the  same  tone;  "I  will 
not  leave  you  now ;  you  will  be  longer  getting  across 
than  I  shall.      I  will  keep  guard  till  you  are  over." 

"Hark!  hark! — are  you  man?  You  keep  guard! 
What  is  your  strength  to  mine  'i  Twenty  men  shall  not 
move  that  door  while  my  weight  is  against  it.  Quick, 
or  you  destroy  us  both!  Besides,  you  will  hold  the  rope 
for  me,  it  may  not  be  strong  enough  for  my  bulk  of 
itself.  Stay  I  —  stay  one  moment.  If  you  escape,  and  I 
fall,  —  Fanny  —  my  father,  he  will  take  care  of  her: 
you  remember  —  thanks!  Forgive  me  all!  Go;  that's 
right!" 

With  a  firm  pulse  Morton  threw  himself  on  that 
dreadful  bridge;  it  swung  and  crackled  at  his  weight. 
Shifting  his  grasp  rapidly,  holding  his  breath,  with 
set  teeth,  with  closed  eyes,  he  moved  on;  he  gained  the 
parapet,  —  he  stood  safe  on  the  opposite  side.  And  now, 
straining  his  eyes  across  he  saw  through  the  open  case- 
ment into  the  chamber  he  had  just  quitted.     Gawtrey 


NIGHT    AND    MOKNING.  17 

was  still  standing  against  the  door  to  the  principal  stair- 
case, for  that  of  the  two  was  the  weaker  and  the  more 
assailed.  Presently  the  explosion  of  a  firearm  was  heard; 
they  had  shot  through  the  panel.  Gawtrey  seemed 
wounded,  for  he  staggered  forward  and  uttered  a  fierce 
cry;  a  moment  more,  and  he  gained  the  window;  he 
seized  the  rope, — he  hung  over  the  tremendous  depth! 
Morton  knelt  by  the  parapet,  holding  the  grappling- 
hook  in  its  place,  with  convulsive  grasp,  and  fixing  his 
eyes,  bloodshot  with  fear  and  suspense,  on  the  huge 
bulk  that  clung  for  life  to  that  slender  cord ! 

"  Le  voila  !  le  voila  !  "  cried  a  voice  from  the  opposite 
side.  Morton  raised  his  gaze  from  Gawtrey;  the  case- 
ment was  darkened  by  the  forms  of  the  pursuers:  they 
had  burst  into  the  room.  An  officer  sprung  upon  the 
parapet,  and  Gawtrey,  now  aware  of  his  danger,  opened 
his  eyes,  and,  as  he  moved  on,  glared  upon  the  foe. 
The  policeman  deliberately  raised  his  pistol.  Gawtrey 
arrested  himself;  from  a  wound  in  his  side  the  blood 
trickled  slowly  and  darkly  down,  drop  by  drop,  upon 
the  stones  below;  even  the  officers  of  law  shuddered  as 
they  eyed  him,  —  his  hair  bristling,  his  cheek  white,  his 
lips  drawn  convulsively  from  his  teeth,  and  his  eye  glar- 
ing from  beneath  the  frown  of  agony  and  menace  in  which 
yet  spoke  the  indomitable  power  and  fierceness  of  the 
man.  His  look,  so  fixed,  so  intense,  so  stern,  awed 
the  policeman;  his  hand  trembled  as  he  fired,  and  the 
ball  struck  the  parapet  an  inch  below  the  spot  where 
Morton  knelt.  An  indistinct,  wild,  gurgling  sound 
—  half-laugh,  half-yell  —  of  scorn  and  glee,  broke  from 
Gawtrey 's  lips.  He  swung  himself  on,  near,  near, 
nearer,  —  a  yard  from  the  parapet. 

"  You  are  saved!  "  cried  Morton ;  when  at  that  moment 
a  volley  burst  from  the  fatal  casement.   The  smoke  rolled 

VOL.  II.  —  2 


18  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

over  both  the  fugitives;  a  groan,  or  rather  howl  of  rage 
and  despair  and  agony,  appalled  even  the  hardiest  on 
Avhose  ear  it  came.  Morton  sprung  to  his  feet  and 
looked  below.  He  saw  on  the  rugged  stones,  far  down, 
a  dark,  formless,  motionless  mass.  The  strong  man  of 
passion  and  levity,  the  giant  who  had  played  with  life 
and  soul,  as  an  infant  with  the  baubles  that  it  prizes  and 
breaks,  was  what  the  Caesar  and  the  leper  alike  are 
•when  the  clay  is  without  God's  breath,  —  what  glory, 
genius,  power,  and  beauty  would  be  forever  and  forever, 
if  there  were  no  God ! 

"  There  is  another !  "  cried  the  voice  of  one  of  the 
pursuers.     "  Fire!  " 

"Poor  Gawtrey!"  muttered  Philip,  "I  will  fulfil 
your  last  wish;  "  and  scarcely  conscious  of  the  bullet 
that  whistled  by  him,  he  disappeared  behind  the 
parapet. 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  19 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Gently  moved 
By  the  soft  wind  of  whispering  silks. 


Decker. 


The  reader  may  remember  that  while  Monsieur  Favart 
and  Mr.  Birnie  were  holding  commune  in  the  lane,  the 
sounds  of  festivity  were  heard  from  a  house  in  the 
adjoining  street.      To  that  house  we  are  now  summoned. 

At  Paris  the  gayeties  of  balls,  or  soirees,  are,  I 
believe  very  rare  in  that  period  of  the  year  in  which 
they  are  most  frequent  in  London.  The  entertainment 
now  given  was  in  honor  of  a  christening;  the  lady  who 
gave  it,  a  relation  of  the  newborn. 

Madame  de  Merville  was  a  young  widow;  even  before 
her  marriage  she  had  been  distinguished  in  literature; 
she  had  written  poems  of  more  than  common  excellence; 
and  being  handsome,  of  good  family,  and  large  fortune, 
her  talents  made  her  an  object  of  more  interest  than  they 
might  otherwise  have  done.  Her  poetry  showed  great 
sensibility  and  tenderness.  If  poetry  be  any  index  to 
the  heart,  you  would  have  thought  her  one  to  love  truly 
and  deeply.  Nevertheless,  since  she  married — as  girls 
in  France  do  —  not  to  please  herself,  but  her  parents, 
she  made  a  mariage  de  convenance.  Monsieur  de  Mer- 
ville was  a  sober,  sensible  man,  past  middle  age.  Not 
being  fond  of  poetry,  and  by  no  means  coveting  a  pro- 
fessional author  for  his  wife,  he  had  during  their  union, 
which  lasted  four  years,  discouraged  his  wife's  liaison 
with  Apollo.     But  her  mind,  active  and  ardent,  did  not 


20  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

the  less  prey  upon  itself.  At  the  age  of  foiir-and-twenty 
slie  became  a  widow,  with  an  income  large  even  in 
England  for  a  single  woman,  and  at  Paris  constituting 
no  ordinary  fortune.  Madame  de  Merville,  however, 
though  a  person  of  elegant  taste,  was  neither  ostentatious 
nor  selfish;  she  had  no  children,  and  she  lived  quietly 
in  apartments,  handsome  indeed,  but  not  more  than  ade- 
quate to  the  small  establishment  which  —  where,  as  on 
the  Continent,  the  costly  convenience  of  an  entire  house 
is  not  usually  incurred  —  sufficed  for  her  retinue.  She 
devoted  at  least  half  her  income,  wdiich  was  entirely  at 
her  own  disposal,  partly  to  the  aid  of  her  own  relations, 
who  were  not  rich,  and  partly  to  the  encouragement  of 
the  literature  she  cultivated.  Although  she  shrank 
from  the  ordeal  of  publication,  her  poems  and  sketches 
of  romance  were  read  to  her  own  friends,  and  possessed 
an  eloquence  seldom  accompanied  with  so  much  mod- 
esty. Thus  her  reputation,  though  not  blown  about 
the  winds,  was  high  in  her  own  circle,  and  her  position 
in  fashion  and  in  fortune  made  her  looked  up  to  by  her 
relations  as  the  head  of  her  family;  they  regarded  her  as 
femme  superieure,  and  her  advice  with  them  was  equiv- 
alent to  a  command.  Eugenie  de  Merville  was  a  strange 
mixture  of  qualities  at  once  feminine  and  masculine. 
On  the  one  hand,  she  had  a  strong  will,  independent 
views,  some  contempt  for  the  world,  and  followed  her 
own  inclinations  without  servility  to  the  opinion  of 
others;  on  the  other  hand,  she  was  susceptible,  romantic, 
of  a  .sweet,  affectionate,  kind  disposition.  Her  visit  to 
M.  Love,  however  indiscreet,  was  not  less  in  accordance 
with  her  character  than  her  charity  to  the  mechanic's 
wife;  masculine  and  careless  where  an  eccentric  thing 
was  to  l)e  done,  —  curiosity  satisfied,  or  some  object  in 
female    diplomacy    achieved;    womanly,    delicate,    and 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  21 

gentle,  the  instant  her  benevolence  was  appealed  to  or 
her  heart  touched.  She  had  now  been  three  years  a 
widow,  and  was  consequently  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
seven.  Despite  the  tenderness  of  her  poetry  and  her 
character,  her  reputation  was  unblemished.  She  had 
never  been  in  love.  People  who  are  much  occupied  do 
not  fall  in  love  easily;  besides,  Madame  de  Mervillo 
was  refining,  exacting,  and  wished  to  find  heroes  where 
she  only  met  handsome  dandies  or  ugly  authors.  More- 
over, Eugenie  was  both  a  vain  and  a  proud  person,  — 
vain  of  her  celebrity,  and  proud  of  her  birth.  She  was 
one  whose  goodness  of  heart  made  her  always  active 
in  promoting  the  happiness  of  others.  She  was  not  only 
generous  and  charitable,  but  willing  to  serve  people  by 
good  offices  as  well  as  money.  Everybo<ly  loved  her. 
The  newborn  infant,  to  whose  addition  to  the  Christian 
community  the  fete  of  this  night  was  dedicated,  was  the 
pledge  of  a  union  which  Madame  de  Merville  had  man- 
aged to  effect  between  two  young  persons,  first  cousins  to 
each  other,  and  related  to  herself.  There  had  been 
scruples  of  parents  to  remove,  money  matters  to  adjust; 
Eugenie  had  smoothed  all.  The  husband  and  wife, 
still  lovers,  looked  up  to  her  as  the  author,  under 
Heaven,  of  their  happiness. 

The  gala  of  that  night  had  been,  therefore,  of  a  nature 
more  than  usually  pleasurable,  and  the  mirth  did  not 
sound  hollow,  but  rung  from  the  heart.  Yet  as  Eugenie 
from  time  to  time  contemplated  the  young  couple,  Avhose 
eyes  ever  soxight  each  other,  —  so  fair,  so  tender,  and  so 
joyous  as  they  seemed,  — a  melancholy  shadow  darkened 
her  brow,  and  she  sighed  involuntarily.  Once  the 
young  wife,  Madame  d'Anville,  approaching  her  tim- 
idly, said, — 

"Ah!  my  sweet   cousin,  when    shall  we   see  you  as 


22  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

happ3'  as  ourselves?  There  is  such  happiness,"  she 
added,  innocently  and  with  a  hlush,  "  in  being  a  mother! 
—  that  little  life  all  one's  own,  —  it  is  something  to 
think  of  every  hour!  " 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Eugenie,  smiling,  and  seeking  to  turn 
the  conversation  from  a  subject  that  touched  too  nearly 
upon  feelings  and  thoughts  lier  pride  did  not  wish  to 
reveal ,  —  "  perhaps  it  is  you  then  who  have  made  our 
cousin,  poor  Monsieur  de  Vaudemont,  so  determined  to 
marry?  Pray,  be  more  cautious  with  him.  How  diffi- 
cult I  have  found  it  to  prevent  his  bringing  into  our 
family  some  one  to  make  us  all  ridicidous!  " 

"True,"  said  Madame  d'Anville,  laughing.  "But 
then  the  vicomte  is  so  poor  and  in  debt.  He  would 
fall  in  love  not  with  the  demoiselle,  but  the  dower. 
Apropos  of  that,  how  cleverly  you  took  advantage 
of  his  boastful  confession  to  break  off  his  liaisons  with 
that  bureau  de  mariage." 

"  Yes ;  I  congratulate  myself  on  that  manoeuvre. 
Unpleasant  as  it  was  to  go  to  such  a  place  (for,  of 
course,  I  could  not  send  for  Monsieur  Love  here),  it 
would  have  been  still  more  unpleasant  to  have  received 
such  a  Madame  de  Vaudemont  as  our  cousin  would  have 
presented  to  us.  Only  think,  — he  was  the  rival  of  an 
epicier  /  I  heard  that  there  was  some  curious  denoueinent 
to  the  farce  of  that  establishment;  but  I  could  never  get 
from  Vaudemont  the  particulars.  He  was  ashamed  of 
them,  I  fanc}'." 

"  What  droll  professions  there  are  in  Paris!  "  said 
Madame  d'Anville;  "  as  if  people  could  not  marry  with- 
out going  to  an  office  for  a  spouse  as  we  go  for  a  servant! 
And  so  the  establishment  is  broken  up?  And  you 
never  again  saw  that  dark,  wild-looking  boy  who  so 
struck   your   fancy    that   you   have    taken    him   as   the 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  23 

original  for  the  Murillo  sketch  of  the  youth  in  that 
charming  tale  you  read  to  us  the  other  evening.  Ah! 
cousin,  I  think  you  were  a  little  taken  with  him;  the 
bureau  de  mariage  had  its  allurements  for  you  as  well 
as  for  our  poor  cousin !  "  The  young  mother  said  this 
laughingly  and  carelessly. 

"Pooh!"  returned  Madame  de  Merville,  laughing 
also;  but  a  slight  blush  broke  over  her  natural  paleness. 
"  But  aprojjos  of  the  vicomte,  you  know  how  cruelly 
he  has  behaved  to  that  poor  boy  of  his  by  his  English 
wife:  never  seen  him  since  he  was  an  infant,  —  kept 
him  at  some  school  in  England ;  and  all  because  his 
vanity  does  not  like  the  world  to  know  that  he  has  a 
son  of  nineteen!  Well,  I  have  induced  him  to  recall 
this  poor  youth. " 

"Indeed!  and  how?" 

"Why,"  said  Eugenie,  with  a  smile,  "  he  wanted  a 
loan,  poor  man,  and  I  could  therefore  impose  condi- 
tions by  way  of  interest.  But  I  also  managed  to  concil- 
iate him  to  the  proposition  by  representing  that  if  the 
young  man  were  good-looking,  he  might  himself,  with 
our  connections,  etc.,  form  an  advantageous  marriage, 
and  that  in  such  a  case,  if  the  father  treated  him 
now  justly  and  kindly,  he  would  naturally  partake 
with  the  father  whatever  benefits  the  marriage  might 
confer. " 

"  Ah!  you  are  an  excellent  diplomatist,  Eugenie;  and 
you  turn  people's  heads  by  always  acting  from  your 
heart.     Hush,  here  comes  the  vicomte!  " 

"A  delightful  ball,"  said  Monsieur  de  Vaudemont, 
approaching  the  hostess.  "  Pray,  has  that  young  lady 
yonder,  in  the  pink  dress,  any  fortune?  She  is  pretty, 
—  eh  ?  —  you  observe  she  is  looking  at  me,  —  I  mean 
at  us!" 


24  NIGHT   AND    MOKNING. 

"  ]\ry  dear  cousin,  what  a  compliment  you  pay  to 
marriage!  You  have  had  two  wives,  and  you  are  ever 
on  the  qui  vive  for  a  third!  " 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  —  we  cannot  resist  the 
overtures  of  your  bewitching  sex.  Hum,  —  what  for- 
tune has  she  1  " 

"  Not  a  sou  :  besides,  she  is  engaged." 

"  Oh !  now  I  look  at  her,  she  is  not  pretty,  —  not  at 
all.  I  made  a  mistake.  I  did  not  mean  her.  I  meant 
the  young  lady  in  blue. " 

"  Worse  and  Avorse,  —  she  is  married  already.  Shall  I 
present  you  ?  " 

"  All,  Monsieur  de  Vaudemont,"  said  Madame 
d'Anville,  "  have  you  found  out  a  new  bureau  de 
mariage  ?  " 

The  vicomte  pretended  not  to  hear  that  question. 
But,  turning  to  Eugenie,  took  her  aside,  and  said  with 
an  air  in  which  he  endeavored  to  throw  a  great  deal  of 
sorrow,  "  You  know,  my  dear  cousin,  that  to  oblige  you 
I  consented  to  send  for  my  son,  though,  as  I  always 
said,  it  is  very  unpleasant  for  a  man  like  me  in  the 
prime  of  life  to  hawk  about  a  great  boy  of  nineteen  or 
twenty.  People  soon  say,  ^ Old  Vaudemont  and  young 
Vaudemont. '  However,  a  father's  feelings  are  never 
appealed  to  in  vain."  Here  the  vicomte  put  his  hand- 
kerchief to  his  eyes,  and  after  a  pause  continued,  "I 
sent  for  him,  — I  even  went  to  your  old  bonne,  Madame 
Dufour,  to  make  a  bargain  for  her  lodgings,  and  this  day, 
guess  my  grief,  I  received  a  letter  sealed  with  black. 
My  son  is  dead!  — a  sudden  fever;  it  is  shocking!  " 

"  Horriljle!  dead!  — your  own  son,  whom  you  hardly 
ever  saw,  —  never  since  he  was  an  infant!  " 

"  Yes,  that  softens  the  blow  very  much.  And  now 
you  see  /  must  marry.     If  the  boy  had  been  good-look- 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  25 

ing,  and  like  me,  and  so  forth,  why,  as  you  observed,  he 
]iiight  have  made  a  good  match,  and  allowed  me  a  certain 
sum,  or  we  could  have  all  lived  together." 

"  And  your  son  is  dead,  and  you  come  to  a  ball!  " 
"  Je  silts  philosophe,''^  said  the  vicomte,  shrugging 
his  shoulders.  "And,  as  you  say,  I  never  saw  him. 
It  saves  me  seven  hundred  francs  a  year.  Don't  say  a 
word  to  any  one,  —  I  sha'n't  give  out  that  he  is  dead, 
l)oor  fellow !  Pray  be  discreet :  you  see  there  are  some 
ill-natured  people  who  might  think  it  odd  I  do  not  shut 
myself  up.  I  can  wait  till  Paris  is  quite  empty.  It 
would  be  a  pity  to  lose  any  opportunity  at  present,  for 
11010,  you  see,  I  viust  marry  I"  And  the  philosojjhe 
sauntered  away. 


26  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

GUIOMAR. 

Those  devotions  I  am  to  pay 
Are  written  in  my  heart,  not  in  this  book. 

Enter  Rutilio. 
I  am  pursued  :  all  the  ports  are  stopped,  too. 
Not  any  hope  to  escape,  —  behind,  before  me. 
On  either  side,  I  am  beset. 
Beaumont  AND  Fletchkr  :  The  Custom  of  the  Countri/. 

The  party  were  just  gone;  it  was  already  the  peep  of 
day;  the  wheels  of  the  last  carriage  had  died  in  the 
distance. 

Madame  de  Merville  had  dismissed  her  woman,  and 
was  seated  in  her  own  room,  leaning  her  head  musingly 
on  her  hand. 

Beside  her  was  the  table  that  held  her  MSS.  and  a 
few  books,  amidst  which  were  scattered  vases  of  flowers. 
On  a  pedestal  beneath  the  window  Avas  placed  a  marble 
bust  of  Dante.  Through  the  open  door  were  seen  in 
perspective  the  rooms  just  deserted  by  her  guests,  — 
the  lights  still  burned  in  the  chandeliers  and  girandoles, 
contendmg  with  the  daylight  that  came  through  the 
half-closed  curtains.  The  person  of  the  inmate  was  in 
harmony  with  the  apartment.  It  was  characterized  by 
a  certain  grace  which,  for  want  of  a  better  epithet,  writers 
are  prone  to  call  clas.sical  or  antique.  Her  complexion, 
seeming  paler  than  usual  by  that  light,  was  yet  soft  and 
delicate,  —  the  features  well  cut,  but  small  and  womanly. 
About  the  face  there  was  that  rarest  of  all  charms,  the 
combination  of  intellect  with  sweetness,  —  the  eyes,  of  a 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  27 

dark  blue,  were  thoughtful,  perhaps  melancholy,  in  their 
expression;  but  the  long  dark  lashes,  and  the  shape  of 
the  eyes,  themselves  more  long  than  full,  gave  to  their 
intelligence  a  softness  approaching  to  languor,  increased, 
perhaps,  by  that  slight  shadow  round  and  below  the  orbs, 
which  is  common  with  those  who  have  tasked  too  much 
either  the  mind  or  the  heart.  The  contour  of  the  face, 
without  being  sharp  or  angular,  had  yet  lost  a  little  of 
the  roiuidness  of  earlier  youth;  and  the  hand  on  Avhich 
she  leaned  was,  perhaps,  even  too  white,  too  delicate, 
for  the  beauty  which  belongs  to  health;  but  the  throat 
and  bust  were  of  exquisite  symmetry. 

"I  am  not  happy,"  murmured  Eugenie  to  herseK; 
"  yet  I  scarce  know  why.  Is  it  really  as  we  women  of 
romance  have  said  till  the  saying  is  worn  threadbare, 
that  the  destiny  of  women  is  not  fame,  but  love? 
Strange,  then,  that  while  I  have  so  often  pictured  what 
love  should  be,  I  have  never  felt  it.  And  now,  —  and 
now, "  she  continued,  half-rising,  and  with  a  natural  pang, 
—  "  now  I  am  no  longer  in  my  first  youth.  If  I  loved, 
should  I  be  loved  again  1  How  happy  that  young  pair 
seemed, —  they  are  never  alone !  " 

At  this  moment,  at  a  distance,  was  heard  the  report 
of  firearms,  —  again.  Eugenie  started,  and  called  to  her 
servant,  who,  with  one  of  the  waiters  hired  for  the  night, 
was  engaged  in  removing,  and  nibbling  as  he  removed, 
the  remains  of  the  feast.  "  VThat  is  that,  at  this  hour  ?  — 
open  the  window  and  look  out!  " 

"  I  can  see  nothing,  madame." 

"Again, —  that  is  the  third  time.  Go  into  the  street 
and  look:  some  one  must  be  in  danger." 

The  servant  and  the  waiter,  both  curious,  and  not  will- 
ing to  part  company,  ran  down  the  stairs,  and  thence 
into  the  street. 


28  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

Meainvliile  INIorton,  after  vainly  attempting  Birnie's 
■window,  which  the  traitor  had  previously  locked  and 
barred  against  the  escape  of  his  intended  victim,  crept 
rapidly  along  the  roof,  screened  by  the  parapet  not  only 
from  the  shot  but  the  sight  of  the  foe.  But,  just  as 
he  gained  the  point  at  which  the  lane  made  an  angle  with 
the  broad  street  it  adjoined,  he  cast  his  eyes  over  the 
parapet,  and  perceived  that  one  of  the  officers  had  ven- 
tured himself  to  the  fearful  bridge :  he  was  pursued,  — 
detection  and  capture  seemed  inevitable.  He  paused  and 
breathed  hard.  He,  once  the  heir  to  such  fortunes,  the 
darling  of  such  affections!  —  he,  the  hunted  accomplice  of 
a  gang  of  miscreants !  That  was  the  thought  that  para- 
lysed,—  the  disgrace,  not  the  danger.  But  he  was  in 
advance  of  the  pursuer ;  he  hastened  on ;  he  turned  the 
angle ;  he  heard  a  shout  behind  from  the  opposite  side, 
—  the  officer  had  passed  the  bridge.  "  It  is  but  one  man 
as  yet,"  thought  he,  and  his  nostrils  dilated  and  his 
hands  clenched  as  he  glided  on,  glancing  at  each  case- 
ment as  he  passed. 

Now  as  youth  and  vigor  thus  struggled  against  law  for 
life,  near  at  hand  death  was  busy  with  toil  and  disease. 

In  a  miserable  gi-ahat,  or  garret,  a  mechanic,  yet 
young,  and  stricken  by  a  lingering  malady  contracted  by 
the  labor  of  his  occupation,  was  slowly  passing  from 
that  world  which  had  frowned  on  his  cradle,  and  relaxed 
not  the  gloom  of  its  aspect  to  comfort  his  bed  of  death. 
Now,  this  man  had  married  for  love,  and  his  wife  had 
loved  him ;  and  it  was  the  cares  of  that  early  marriage 
which  had  consumed  him  to  the  bone.  But  extreme 
want,  if  long  continued,  eats  up  love  when  it  has  nothing 
else  to  eat.  And  when  people  are  very  long  dying,  the 
people  they  fret  and  trouble  begin  to  think  of  that  too 
often  hypocritical  prettiness  of  phrase  called  "  a  happy 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  29 

release. "  So  the  worn-out  and  half-famished  wife  did  not 
care  three  straws  for  the  dying  husband  whom  a  year  or 
two  ago  she  had  vowed  to  love  and  cherish  in  sickness 
and  in  health.  But  still  she  seemed  to  care;  for  she 
moaned  and  pined  and  wept  as  the  man's  breath  grew 
fainter  and  fainter. 

"  Ah,  Jean !  "  said  she,  sobbing,  "  what  will  become 
of  vie,  a  poor,  lone  widow  with  nobody  to  work  for  my 
bread  ? "  And  with  that  thought  she  took  on  worse 
than  before. 

"  I  am  stifling, "  said  the  dying  man,  rolling  round 
his  ghastly  eyes.  "  How  hot  it  is !  Open  the  v/indow ; 
I  should  like  to  see  the  light,  —  daylight  once  again. " 

"  Mon  Dieu  I  what  whims  he  has,  poor  man !  "  mut- 
tered the  woman,  without  stirring. 

The  poor  wretch  put  out  his  skeleton  hand  and 
clutched  his  wife's  arm. 

"  I  sha'n't  trouble  you  long,  Marie !     Air,  —  air !  " 

"  Jean,  you  will  make  yourself  worse,  —  besides,  I 
shall  catch  my  death  of  cold.  I  have  scarce  a  rag  on; 
but  I  will  just  open  the  door." 

"  Pardon  me, "  groaned  the  sufferer ;  "  leave  me, 
then." 

Poor  fellow!  perhaps  at  that  moment  the  thought  of 
unkindness  was  sharper  than  the  sharp  cough  which 
brought  blood  at  every  paroxysm.  He  did  not  like  her 
so  near  him,  but  he  did  not  blame  her.  Again,  I  say, 
poor  fellow! 

The  woman  opened  the  door,  went  to  the  other  side  of 
the  room  and  sat  down  on  an  old  box,  and  began  darning 
an  old  neck-handkerchief.  The  silence  was  soon  broken 
by  the  moans  of  the  fast-dying  man,  and  again  he  mut- 
tered, as  he  tossed  to  and  fro,  with  baked  white  lips,  — 

"Jem:etouffe!  —  A.u\" 


30  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

There  was  no  resisting  that  prayer,  it  seemed  so  like 
the  last.      The  wife  laid  down  the  needle,  put  the  hand- 
kerchief round  her  throat,  and  opened  the  window. 
"  Do  you  feel  easier  now  1  " 

"Bless  you,  Marie,  —  yes;  that's  good,  good.  It 
puts  me  in  mind  of  old  days,  that  breath  of  air,  before 
we  came  to  Paris.  I  wish  I  could  work  for  you  noWf 
Marie." 

"  Jean !  my  poor  Jean !  "  said  the  woman,  and  the 
words  and  tlie  voice  took  back  her  hardening  heart  to 
the  fresh  fields  and  tender  thoughts  of  the  past  time. 
And  she  walked  up  to  the  bed,  and  he  leaned  his 
temples,  damp  with  livid  dews,  upon  her  breast. 

"  I  have  been  a  sad  burden  to  you,  Marie :  we  should 
not  have  married  so  soon ;  but  I  thought  I  was  stronger. 
Don't  cry ;  we  have  no  little  ones,  thank  God.  It  will 
be  much  better  for  you  when  I  am  gone. " 

And  so,  word  after  word  gasped  out,  he  stopped  sud- 
denly and  seemed  to  fall  asleep. 

The  v^ife  then  attempted  gently  to  lay  him  once  more 
on  his  pillow ;  the  head  fell  back  heavily,  the  jaw  had 
dropped,  the  teeth  were  set,  the  eyes  were  open  and 
like  stone,  —  the  truth  broke  on  her! 

"Jean  — Jean!  My  God,  he  is  dead!  and  I  was 
unkind  to  him  at  the  last!  "  With  these  words  she  fell 
upon  the  corpse,  happily  herself  insensible. 

Just  at  tliat  moment  a  human  face  peered  in  at  the 
window.  Through  that  aperture,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  a  young  man  leaped  lightly  into  the  room.  He 
looked  round  with  a  hurried  glance,  but  scarcely  noticed 
the  forms  stretched  on  the  pallet.  It  was  enough  for 
him  that  they  seemed  to  sleep,  and  saw  him  not.  He 
stole  across  the  room,  the  door  of  which  Marie  had  left 
open,  and  descended  the  stairs.     He  had  almost  gained 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  31 

the  courtyard  into  which  the  stairs  conducted,  Avhen  he 
heard  voices  helow  by  the  porter's  lodge. 

"  The  police  have  discovered  a  gang  of  coiners !  " 

"Coiners!  " 

"  Yes ;  one  has  been  shot  dead !  I  have  seen  his  body 
in  the  kennel :  another  has  fled  along  the  roofs,  —  a  des- 
perate fellow !  We  were  to  watch  for  him.  Let  us  go 
upstairs  and  get  on  the  roof  and  look  out." 

By  the  hum  of  approval  that  followed  this  proposi- 
tion, Morton  judged  rightly  that  it  had  been  addressed  to 
several  persons  whom  curiosity  and  the  explosion  of  the 
pistols  had  drawn  from  their  beds,  and  who  were  grouped 
round  the  porter's  lodge.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  —  to 
advance  wa^  impossible :  was  there  yet  time  to  retreat  1  — 
it  was  at  least  the  only  course  left  him ;  he  sprang  back 
up  the  stairs;  he  had  just  gained  the  first  flight  when  he 
heard  steps  descending;  then,  suddenly,  it  flashed  across 
him  that  he  had  left  open  the  window  above,  — that, 
doul)tless,  by  that  imprudent  oversight,  the  officer  in 
pursuit  had  detected  a  clew  to  the  path  he  had  taken. 
What  was  to  be  done  ?  —  die  as  Gawtrey  had  done !  — 
death  rather  than  the  galleys.  As  he  thus  resolved, 
he  saw  to  the  right  the  open  door  of  an  apartment  in 
which  lights  still  glimmered  in  their  sockets.  It  seemed 
deserted,  —  he  entered  boldly  and  at  once,  closing  the  door 
after  him.  Wines  and  viands  still  left  on  the  table; 
gilded  mirrors,  reflecting  the  stern  face  of  the  solitary 
intruder;  here  and  there  an  artificial  flower;  a  knot  of 
ribbon  on  the  floor, — all  betokening  the  gayeties  and  graces 
of  luxurious  life,  the  dance,  the  revel,  the  feast,  all 
this  in  one  apartment.  Above,  in  the  same  house,  the 
pallet,  the  corpse,  the  widow,  —  famine  and  woe !  Such 
is  a  great  city;  such,  above  all,  is  Paris!  where,  under 
the  same  roof,  are  gathered  such  antagonistic  varieties  of 


32  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

the  social  state!  Nothing  strange  in  this;  it  is  strange 
and  sad  that  so  little  do  people,  thus  neighbors,  know 
of  each  other  that  the  owner  of  those  rooms  had  a  heart 
soft  to  every  distress,  but  she  did  not  know  the  distress 
80  close  at  hand.  The  music  that  had  charmed  her 
guests  had  mounted  gayly  to  the  vexed  ears  of  agony  and 
hunger.  Morton  passed  the  first  room,  — a  second;  he 
came  to  a  third,  and  Eugenie  de  Merville,  looking  up  at 
that  instant,  saw  before  her  an  apparition  that  might 
well  have  alarmed  the  boldest.  His  head  was  uncovered, 
—  his  dark  hair  shadowed  in  wild  and  disorderly  profu- 
sion the  pale  face,  and  features,  beautiful  indeed ;  but  at 
that  moment  of  the  beauty  which  an  artist  would  impart 
to  a  young  gladiator,  —  stamped  with  defiance,  menace,  and 
despair.  The  disordered  garb,  the  fierce  aspect,  the 
dark  eyes,  that  literally  shone  through  the  shadows  of 
the  room,  — all  conspired  to  increase  the  terror  of  so 
abrupt  a  presence. 

"  What  are  you  1  What  do  you  seek  here  1  "  said 
she,  falteringly,  placing  her  hand  on  the  bell  as  she 
spoke. 

Upon  that  soft  hand  Morton  laid  his  own. 

"I  seek  my  life!  I  am  pursued!  I  am  at  your 
mercy !     I  am  innocent !     Can  you  save  me  1  " 

As  he  spoke,  the  door  of  the  outer  room  beyond  was 
heard  to  open,  and  steps  and  voices  were  at  hand. 

"  Ah !  "  he  exclaimed,  recoiling  as  he  recognized  her 
face.     "  And  is  it  to  you  that  I  have  fled  1  " 

Eugenie  also  recognized  the  stranger;  and  there  was 
something  in  tlieir  relative  positions  —  the  suppliant, 
the  protectress  —  that  excited  both  her  imagination  and 
her  pity.  A  slight  color  mantled  to  her  cheeks, — her 
look  was  gentle  and  compassionate. 

"Poor  boy!  so  young!  "  she  said.     "  Hush!  " 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  33 

She  withdrew  her  hand  from  his,  retired  a  few  steps, 
lifted  a  curtain  drawn  across  a  recess,  and  pointing  to 
an  alcove  that  contained  one  of  those  sofa-beds  common 
in  French  houses,  added  in  a  whisper,  — 

"  Enter,  —  you  are  saved. " 

Morton  obeyed,  and  Eugenie  replaced  the  curtain. 


VOL.  II. 


34  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

GCIOMAR. 

Speak !     What  are  you  ? 

RUTILIO. 

Gracious  woman,  hear  me.     I  am  a  stranger  ; 
And  iu  that  I  answer  all  your  demands. 

Custom  ojthe  Country. 

Eugenie  replaced  tlie  curtain,  and  scarcely  had  she  done 
so,  ere  the  steps  in  the  outer  room  entered  the  chamber 
"where  she  stood.  Her  servant  was  accompanied  by  two 
officers  of  the  police. 

"Pardon,  madame,"  said  one  of  the  latter;  "but 
we  are  in  pursuit  of  a  criminal.  We  think  he  must 
have  entered  this  house  tlirough  a  window  above  while 
your  servant  was  in  the  street.     Permit  us  to  search  1  " 

"Without  doubt,"  answered  Eugenie,  seating  herself. 
"  If  he  has  entered,  look  in  the  other  apartments.  I 
have  not  quitted  this  room." 

"  You  are  right.     Accept  our  apologies." 

And  the  officers  turned  back  to  examine  every  corner 
where  the  fugitive  was  7iot.  For  in  that,  the  scouts  of 
Justice  resembled  their  mistress:  when  does  man's  jus- 
tice look  to  the  right  place? 

The  servant  lingered  to  repeat  the  tale  he  had  heard, 
—  the  sight  he  had  seen.  When,  at  tliat  instant,  he 
saw  the  curtain  of  the  alcove  slightly  stirred.  He 
uttered  an  exclamation,  sprung  to  the  bed;  his  hand 
toiiched  the  curtain,  —  Eugenie  seized  his  arm.  She 
did  not  speak:  but  as  he  turned  his  eyes  to  her,  aston- 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  SS 

ished,  he  saw  that  she  trembled,  and  that  her  cheek 
was  as  white  as  marble. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  hesitating,  "there  is  some  one 
hid  in  the  recess." 

"There  is!     Be  silent!  " 

A  suspicion  flashed  across  the  servant's  mind.  The 
pure,  the  proud,  the  immaculate  Eugenie! 

"  There  is!  —  and  in  madame's  chamber!  "  he  faltered 
unconsciously. 

Eugenie's  quick  apprehensions  seized  the  foul  thought. 
Her  eyes  flashed,  her  cheek  crimsoned.  But  her  lofty 
and  generous  nature  conquered  even  the  indignant  and 
scornful  burst  that  rushed  to  hei  lips.  The  truth !  — 
could  she  trust  the  man  1  A  doubt,  —  and  the  charge 
of  the  human  life  rendered  to  her  might  be  betrayed. 
Her  color  fell,  tears  gushed  to  her  eyes. 

"  I  have  been  kind  to  you,  Francois.     Not  a  word!  " 

"  Madame  confides  in  me,  — it  is  enough,"  said  the 
Frenchman,  bowing,  with  a  slight  smile  on  his  lips; 
and  he  drew  back  respectfully. 

One  of  the  police-officers  re-entered. 

"  We  have  done,  madame,  he  is  not  here.  Aha!  that 
curtain!  " 

"It  is  madame's  bed,"  said  Francois.  "But  I  have 
looked  behind. " 

"  I  am  most  sorry  to  have  disarranged  you,"  said  the 
policeman,  satisfied  with  the  answer;  "but  we  shall  have 
him  yet."     And  he  retired. 

The  last  footsteps  died  away,  the  last  door  of  the 
apartments  closed  behind  the  officers,  and  Eugenie  and 
her  servant  stood  alone  gazing  on  each  other. 

"You  may  retire,"  said  she,  at  last;  and  taking  her 
purse  from  the  table,  she  placed  it  in  his  hands. 

The  man  took  it,  with  a  significant  look. 


36  KIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

"  ^Madame  may  depend  on  ray  discretion."  • 

Eugenie  was  alone  again.  Those  words  rang  in  her 
ear,  —  Eugenie  de  ^lerville  dependent  on  the  discretion 
of  her  lackey!  She  sank  into  her  chair,  and,  her  excite- 
ment succeeded  by  exhaustion,  leaned  her  face  on  her 
hands,  and  burst  into  tears.  She  was  aroused  by  a  low 
voice,  she  looked  up,  and  the  young  man  was  kneeling 
at  her  feet. 

"  Go  —  go !  "  she  said :  "  I  have  done  for  you  all  I  can. 
You  heard,  you  heard,  —  my  own  hireling,  too!  At  the 
hazard  of  my  own  good  name  you  are  saved.      Go  I  " 

"  Of  your  good  name !  "  —  for  Eugenie  forgot  that  it 
was  looks,  not  words,  that  had  so  wrung  her  pride, — 
"your  good  name,"  he  repeated:  and  glancing  round 
the  room  —  the  toilet,  the  curtain,  the  recess  he  had 
quitted,  —  all  that  bespoke  that  chastest  sanctuary  of  a 
chaste  woman,  which  for  a  stranger  to  enter  is,  as  it 
were,  to  profane  —  her  meaning  broke  on  him.  "Your 
good  name!  —  your  hireling!  No,  madame,  —  no!" 
And  as  he  spoke  he  rose  to  his  feet.  "  Not  for  me,  that 
sacrifice!  Your  humanity  shall  not  cost  you  so  dear. 
Ho,  there!  I  am  the  man  you  seek."  And  he  strode 
to  the  door. 

Eugenie  was  penetrated  with  the  answer.  She  sprung 
to  him,  she  grasped  his  garments. 

"  Hush !  hush !  —  for  mercy's  sake !  What  would  you 
dol  Think  you  I  could  ever  be  happy  again  if  the 
confidence  you  placed  in  me  were  betrayed?  Be  calm, 
—  be  still.  I  knew  not  what  I  said.  It  will  be  easy 
to  undeceive  the  man  —  later  —  when  you  are  saved. 
And  you  are  innocent,  —  are  you  not?  " 

"Oh,  madame,"  said  Morton,  "from  my  soul,  I  say 
it,  I  am  innocent,  — not  of  poverty,  wretchedness,  error, 
shame;    T  am  innocent  of  crime.      May    Heaven    bless 


NIGHT    AND    iMORNING.  37 

you!  "  And  as  he  reverently  kissed  the  hand  laid  on 
his  arm,  there  was  something  in  his  voice  so  touching, 
in  his  manner  something  so  above  his  fortunes,  that 
Eugenie  was  lost  in  her  feelings  of  compassion,  sur- 
prise, and  something,  it  might  be,  of  admiration  in  her 
wonder. 

"And,  oh!"  he  said,  passionately,  gazing  on  her 
with  his  dark,  brilliant  eyes,  liquid  with  emotion,  "you 
have  made  my  life  sweet  in  saving  it.  You  —  you,  of 
whom,  ever  since  the  first  time,  almost  the  sole  time,  I 
beheld  you,  —  I  have  so  often  mused  and  dreamed. 
Henceforth,  whatever  befall  me,  there  will  be  some 
recollections  that  will  —  that  —  " 

He  stopped  short,  for  his  heart  was  too  full  for  words; 
and  the  silence  said  more  to  Eugenie  than  if  all  the 
eloquence  of  Rousseau  had  glowed  upon  his  tongue. 

"And  who,  and  what  are  you?  "  she  asked,  after  a 
pause. 

"  An  exile,  an  orphan,  an  outcast!  I  have  no  name! 
Farewell !  " 

"  No,  —  stay  yet  ;  the  danger  is  not  past.  Wait  till 
my  servant  is  gone  to  rest ;  I  hear  him  yet.  Sit  down, 
—  sit  down.     And  whither  would  you  go  1  " 

"1  know  not." 

"  Have  you  no  friends  1  " 

"None." 

«  No  home  1  " 

"  None." 

"And  the  police  of  Paris  so  vigilant!  "  cried  Eugenie, 
wringing  her  hands.  "  What  is  to  be  done  1  I  shall 
have  saved  you  in  vain,  —  you  will  be  discovered!  Of 
what  do  they  charge  you  1    Not  robbery  —  not  —  " 

And  she,  too,  stopped  short,  for  she  did  not  dare  to 
breathe  the  black  word,  "Murder!  " 


38  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  I  know  not,"  said  Morton,  putting  his  hand  to  his 
forehead ,"  except  of  being  friends  with  the  only  man 
who  befriended  me,  — and  they  have  killed  him!  " 

"  Another  time  you  shall  tell  me  all." 

"  Another  time!"  he  exclaimed,  eagerly, — "shall  I 
see  you  again  1  " 

Eugenie  blushed  beneath  the  gaze  and  the  voice  of 

joy- 

"Yes,"  she  said;  "yes.  But  I  must  reflect.  Be 
calm,  —  be  silent.     Ah !  —  a  happy  thought !  " 

She  sat  down,  wrote  a  hasty  line,  sealed,  and  gave  it 
to  Morton. 

"Take  this  note,  as  addressed,  to  Madame  Dufour;  it 
will  provide  you  with  a  safe  lodging.  She  is  a  person 
I  can  depend  on,  —  an  old  servant  who  lived  with  my 
mother  and  to  whom  I  have  given  a  small  pension. 
She  has  a  lodging;  it  is  lately  vacant:  I  promised  to 
procure  her  a  tenant, — go,  say  nothing  of  what  has 
passed.  I  will  see  her  and  arrange  all.  Wait!  —  hark! 
—  all  is  still!  I  will  go  first,  and  see  that  no  one 
watches  you.  Stop"  (and  she  threw  open  the  window, 
and  looked  into  the  court).  "  The  porter's  door  is 
open,  —  that  is  fortunate!  Hurry  on,  and  God  be  with 
you!" 

In  a  few  minutes  Morton  was  in  the  streets.  It  was 
still  early;  the  thoroughfares  deserted, — none  of  the 
shops  yet  open.  The  address  on  the  note  was  to  a  street 
at  some  distance  on  the  other  side  of  the  Seine.  He 
passed  along  the  same  Quai  which  he  had  trodden  but 
a  few  hours  since ;  he  passed  the  same  splendid  bridge 
on  which  he  had  stood  despairing,  to  quit  it  revived ; 
he  gained  the  Rue  Faubourg  St.  Honore.  A  young  man 
in  a  cabriolet,  on  whose  fair  cheek  burned  the  hectic  of 
late  vigils  and  lavish  dissipation,  was  rolling  leisurely 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  39 

home  from  the  gaming-house,  at  which  he  had  been 
more  than  usually  fortunate,  —  his  pockets  were  laden 
with  notes  and  gold.  He  bent  forwards  as  Morton 
passed  him.  Philip,  absorbed  in  his  reverie,  perceived 
him  not,  and  continued  his  way.  The  gentleman  turned 
down  one  of  the  streets  to  the  left,  stopped,  and  called 
to  the  servant  dozing  behind  his  cabriolet, — 

"Follow  that  passenger!  quietly,  — see  where  he 
lodges;  be  sure  to  find  out  and  let  me  know.  I  shall 
go  home  without  you."     With  that  he  drove  on. 

Fliili]!,  unconscious  of  the  espionar/e,  arrived  at  a 
small  house  in  a  quiet  but  respectable  street,  and  rang 
tlie  bell  several  times  before  at  last  he  was  admitted  by 
^Madame  Dufour  herself,  in  her  night-cap.  The  old 
woman  looked  askant  and  alarmed  at  the  unexpected 
apparition.  But  the  note  seemtid  at  once  to  satisfy 
her.  She  conducted  him  to  an  apartment  on  the  first 
floor,  small,  but  neatly  and  even  elegantly  furnished, 
consisting  of  a  sitting-room  and  a  bed-chamber,  and  said, 
quietly,  — 

"  Will  they  suit  monsieur?  " 

To  monsieur  they  seemed  a  palace.  Morton  nodded 
assent. 

"  And  will  monsieur  sleep  for  a  short  time  1  " 

"Yes." 

"  The  bed  is  well-aired.  The  rooms  have  only  been 
vacant  three  days  since.  Can  I  get  you  anything  till 
your  luggage  arrives  ? " 

«Ko." 

The  woman  left  him.  He  threw  off  his  clothes,  flunji 
himself  on  the  bed,  —  and  did  not  wake  till  noon. 

When  his  eyes  unclosed, — when  they  rested  on  that 
calm  chamber,  with  its  air  of  health  and  cleanliness 
and  comfort,  it  was  long  before  he  could  convince  him- 


40  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

self  that  he  was  yet  awake.  He  missed  the  loud,  deep 
voice  of  Gawtrey,  the  smoke  of  the  dead  man's  meer- 
schaum, the  gloomy  garret,  the  distained  walls,  the 
stealthy  whisper  of  the  loathed  Birnie;  slowly  the  life 
led  and  the  life  gone  within  the  last  twelve  hours  grew 
upon  his  struggling  memory.  He  groaned,  and  turned 
uneasily  round,  when  the  door  slightly  opened,  and  he 
spriuig  up  fiercely,  — 

"  Who  is  there  1 " 

"It  is  only  I,  sir,"  answered  Madame  Dufour.  "I 
have  been  in  three  times  to  see  if  you  were  stirring. 
There  is  a  letter,  I  believe,  for  you,  sir;  though  there 
is  no  name  to  it,"  and  she  laid  the  letter  on  the  chair 
beside  him.  Did  it  come  from  her,  —  the  saving  angel? 
He  seized  it.  The  cover  was  blank ;  it  was  sealed  with 
a  small  device,  as  of  a  ring  seal.  He  tore  it  open,  and 
found  four  billets  de  ba7ique  ioT  1000  francs  each,  —  a 
sum  equivalent  in  our  money  to  about  £160. 

"  Who  sent  this,  the  —  the  lady  from  whom  I  brought 
the  note  ?  " 

"Madame  de  Merville?  —  certainly  not,  sir,"  said 
Madame  Dufour,  who,  with  the  privilege  of  age,  was 
now  unscrupulously  filling  the  water-jugs  and  settling 
the  toilet-table.  "  A  young  man  called  about  two  hours 
after  you  had  gone  to  bed;  and  describing  you,  inquired 
if  you  lodged  here,  and  what  your  name  was.  I  said 
you  had  just  arrived,  and  that  I  did  not  yet  know  your 
name.  So  he  went  away,  and  came  again  half  an  hour 
afterwards  with  this  letter,  which  he  charged  me  to 
deliver  to  you  safely." 

"  A  young  man,  —  a  gentleman  ?  " 

"No,  sir;  he  seemed  a  smart  but  common  sort  of 
lad."  For  the  unsophisticated  Madame  Dufour  did  not 
discover  in  the  plain,  black  frock  and  drab  gaiters  of  the 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  41 

bearer  of  that  letter  the  simple  livery  of  an  English 
gentleman's  groom. 

Whom  could  it  come  from,  if  not  from  Madame  de 
Merville?  Perhaps  one  of  Gawtrey's  late  friends.  A 
suspicion  of  Arthur  Beaufort  crossed  him,  but  he  indig- 
nantly dismissed  it.  Men  are  seldom  credulous  of 
what  they  are  unwilling  to  helieve!  What  kindness 
had  the  Beauforts  hitherto  shown  him?  —  left  his 
mother  to  perish  broken-hearted,  stolen  from  him  his 
brother,  and  steeled,  in  that  brother,  the  only  heart 
wherein  he  had  a  right  to  look  for  gratitude  and  love ! 
No;  it  viust  be  Madame  de  Merville.  He  dismissed 
Madame  Dufour  for  pen  and  paper,  rose,  wrote  a  letter 
to  Eugenie  —  grateful,  but  proud  —  and  enclosed  the 
notes.  He  then  summoned  Madame  Dufour,  and  sent 
her  with  his  despatch. 

"Ah,  madame,"  said  the  ci-devant  bonne,  when  she 
found  herself  in  Eugenie's  presence.  "The  poor  lad! 
how  handsome  he  is,,  and  how  shameful  in  the  vicomte 
to  let  him  wear  such  clothes!  " 

"The  vicomte!  " 

"Oh,  my  dear  mistress,  you  must  not  deny  it.  You 
told  me  in  your  note  to  ask  him  no  questions,  but  I 
guessed  at  once.  The  vicomte  told  me  himself  that  he 
should  have  the  young  gentleman  over  in  a  few  days. 
You  need  not  be  ashamed  of  him.  You  will  see  what  a 
difference  clothes  will  make  in  his  appearance;  and  I 
have  taken  it  on  myself  to  order  a  tailor  to  go  to  him. 
The  vicomte  must  pay  me." 

"  Not  a  word  to  the  vicomte  as  yet.  We  will  surprise 
him,"  said  Eugenie,  laughing. 

Madame  de  Merville  had  been  all  that  morning  trying 
to  invent  some  story  to  account  for  her  interest  in  the 
lodger,  and  now  fortune  favored  her! 


42  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

"  But  is  that  a  letter  for  me  ?  " 

"  And  I  had  almost  forgot  it,"  said  Madame  Dufour, 
as  she  extended  the  letter. 

Whatever  there  had  hitherto  been  in  the  circum- 
stances connected  with  Morton  that  had  roused  the 
interest  and  excited  the  romance  of  Eugenie  de  Merville, 
her  fancy  was  yet  more  attracted  by  the  tone  of  the  letter 
she  now  read.  For  though  Morton,  more  accustomed 
to  speak  than  to  write  French,  expressed  himself  with 
less  precision,  and  a  less  euphuistic  selection  of  phrase 
than  the  authors  and  elegans  who  formed  her  usual 
correspondents,  there  was  an  innate  and  rough  nobleness 
—  a  strong  and  profound  feeling  in  every  line  of  his 
letter  —  which  increased  her  surprise  and  admiration. 

"  All  that  surrounds  him,  —  all  that  belongs  to  him,  is 
strangeness  and  mystery!"  murmured  she;  and  she  sat 
down  to  reply. 

When  Madame  Dufour  departed  with  that  letter, 
Eugenie  remained  silent  and  thouglitful  for  more  than 
an  hour,  —  Morton's  letter  before  her;  and  sweet,  in 
their  indistinctness,  were  the  recollections  and  the 
images  that  crowded  on  her  mind. 

Morton,  satisfied  by  the  earnest  and  solemn  assurances 
of  Eugenie  that  she  was  not  the  unknown  donor  of  the 
sum  she  re-enclosed,  after  puzzling  himself  in  vain  to 
form  any  new  conjectures  as  to  the  quarter  whence  it 
came,  felt  that,  under  his  present  circumstances,  it 
would  Ije  an  absurd  Quixotism  to  refuse  to  apply  what 
the  very  Providence  to  whom  he  had  anew  consigned 
himself  seemed  to  have  sent  to  his  aid.  And  it  placed 
him,  too,  beyond  the  offer  of  all  pecuniary  assistance 
from  one  from  whom  he  could  least  have  brooked  to 
receive  it.  He  consented,  therefore,  to  all  that  the 
lo(iuaciou8   tailor   proposed   to    him.       And    it    would 


NIGHT   AND    MOUNING.  43 

have  been  difficult  to  have  recognized  the  wild  and 
frenzied  fugitive  in  the  stately  and  graceful  form,  with 
its  young  beauty  and  air  of  well-born  pride,  which  the 
next  day  sat  by  the  side  of  Eugenie.  And  that  day  he 
told  his  sad  and  troubled  story,  and  Eugenie  Avept;  and 
from  that  day  he  came  daily  ;  and  two  weeks  —  happy, 
dreamlike,  intoxicating  to  both  —  passed  by ;  and,  as 
their  last  sun  set,  he  was  kneeling  at  her  feet,  and 
breathing  to  one  to  whom  the  homage  of  wit  and  genius 
and  complacent  wealth,  had  hitherto  been  vainly 
proffered,  the  impetuous,  agitated,  delicious  secrets  of 
the  first  love.  He  spoke,  and  rose  to  depart  forever,  — 
when  the  look  and  sigh  detained  him. 

The   next   day,  after  a  sleepless   night,    Eugenie  de 
Merville  sent  for  the  Vicomte  de  Vaudemont. 


44  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A  silver  river  small 
In  sweet  accents 
Its  music  vents  ;  — 
The  warbling  virginal, 
To  which  the  merry  birds  do  sing, 
Timed  with  stops  of  gold  the  silver  string. 

Sir  Kichakd  Fanshaw. 

One  evening,  several  weeks  after  the  events  just  com- 
memorated,   a    stranger,  leading    in    his    hand   a   young 

child,  entered  the  churchyard  of  H .     The  sun  had 

not  long  set,  and  the  short  twilight  of  deepening  sum- 
mer reigned  in  the  tranquil  skies ;  you  might  still  hear 
from  the  trees  above  the  graves  the  chirp  of  some  joy- 
ous bird:  what  cared  he,  the  denizen  of  the  skies,  for 
the  dead  that  slept  below  1  —  what  did  he  value  save  the 
greenness  and  repose  of  the  spot  ?  —  to  him  alike,  the 
garden  or  the  grave !  As  the  man  and  the  child  passed, 
the  robin,  scarcely  scared  by  their  tread  from  the  long 
grass  beside  one  of  the  mounds,  looked  at  them  with 
its  bright,  blithe  eye.  It  was  a  famous  spot  for  the 
robin,  — the  old  churchyard!  That  domestic  bird  — 
"the  friend  of  man,"  as  it  has  been  called  by  the  poets 
—  found  a  jolly  supper  among  the  worms! 

Tlie  stranger,  on  reaching  the  middle  of  the  sacred 
ground,  paused  and  looked  round  him  wistfully.  He 
then  approached,  slowly  and  hesitatingly,  an  oblong 
tablet,  on  which  were  graven,  in  letters  yet  fresh  and 
new,  these  words :  — 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  45 

TO   THE 

MEMORY   OF   ONE   CALUMNIATED    AND   WRONGED, 

THIS   BURIAL-STONE   IS    DEDICATED 

BY    HER   SON. 

Such,  with  the  addition  of  the  dates  of  birth  and 
death,  was  the  tablet  which  Philip  Morton  had  directed 
to  be  placed  over  his  mother's  bones ;  and  around  it  was 
set  a  simple  palisade,  which  defended  it  from  the  tread 
of  the  children,  who  sometimes,  in  defiance  of  the  beadle, 
played  over  the  dust  of  the  former  race. 

"  Thy  son !  "  muttered  the  stranger,  while  the  child 
stood  quietly  by  his  side,  pleased  by  the  trees,  the 
grass,  the  song  of  the  birds,  and  recking  not  of  grief  or 
death,  —  "  thy  son !  —  but  not  thy  favored  son,  thy 
darling,  thy  youngest  born;  on  what  spot  of  earth  do 
thine  eyes  look  down  on  him  ?  Surely  in  heaven  thy 
love  has  preserved  the  one  whom  on  earth  thou  didst 
most  cherish,  from  the  suflferings  and  the  trials  that 
have  visited  the  less-favored  outcast.  Oh,  mother, 
mother!  —  it  was  not  his  crime  —  not  Philip's —  that  he 
did  not  fulfil  to  the  last  the  trust  bequeathed  to  him  ! 
Happier,  perhaps,  as  it  is!  And,  oh!  if  thy  memory 
be  graven  as  deeply  in  my  brother's  heart  as  my  own, 
how  often  will  it  warn  and  save  him!  That  memory! 
—  it  has  been  to  me  the  angel  of  my  life !  To  thee  — 
to  thee,  even  in  death,  I  owe  it,  if,  though  erring,  I 
am  not  criminal;  if  I  have  lived  with  the  lepers,  and 
am  still  undefiled !  "  His  lips  then  were  silent,  —  not 
his  heart ! 

After  a  few  minutes  thus  consumed  he  turned  to  the 
child,  and  said,  gently  and  in  a  tremulous  voice,  "  Fanny, 
you  have  been  taught  to  pray ;  you  will  live  near  this 
spot,  —  will  you  come  sometimes  here  and  pray  that  you 


46  NIGHT   AND   MOKNING. 

may  groAv  up  good  and  innocent,  and  become  a  blessing 
to  those  who  love  you  ?  " 

"  Will  papa  ever  come  to  hear  me  pray  1  " 

That  sad  and  unconscious  question  went  to  the  heart 
of  Morton.  The  child  could  not  comprehend  death. 
He  had  sought  to  explain  it,  but  she  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  consider  her  protector  dead  when  he  was  absent 
from  her,  and  she  still  insisted  that  he  must  come  again 
to  life.  And  that  man  of  turbulence  and  crime,  Avho 
had  passed  unrepentant,  unabsolved,  from  sin  to  judg- 
ment ;  it  was  an  awful  question,  —  "  If  he  should  hear 
her  pray  1  " 

"  Yes !  "  said  he,  after  a  pause,  —  "  yes ,  Fanny,  there 
is  a  Father  who  will  hear  you  pray;  and  pray  to  him 
to  be  merciful  to  those  who  have  been  kind  to  you. 
Fanny,  you  and  I  may  never  meet  agam  I  " 

"  Are  you  going  to  die  too  1  Mediant,  every  one  dies 
to  Fanny!"  and,  clinging  to  him  endearingly,  she  put 
up  her  lips  to  kiss  him.  He  took  her  in  his  arms;  and, 
as  a  tear  fell  upon  her  rosy  cheek,  she  said,  "  Don't  cry, 
brother,  for  I  love  you. " 

"  Do  you,  dear  Fanny  ?  Then,  for  my  sake,  when  you 
come  to  this  place,  if  any  one  will  give  you  a  few  flowers, 
scatter  them  on  that  stone.  And  now  we  will  go  to  one 
whom  you  must  love  also,  and  to  whom,  as  I  have  told 
you,  he  sends  you ;  he  who  —      Come !  " 

As  he  thus  spoke,  and  placed  Fanny  again  on  the 
ground,  he  was  startled  to  see,  precisely  on  the  spot 
where  he  had  seen  before  the  like  apparition,  on  the 
same  spot  where  the  father  had  cursed  the  son,  the 
motionless  form  of  an  old  man.  Morton  recognized,  as 
if  by  an  instinct  rather  than  by  an  effort  of  the  memory, 
the  person  to  whom  he  was  bound. 

He  walked  slowly  towards  him;  but  Fanny  abruptly 


NIGHT   AND   MOPcNING.  47 

left  his  side,  lured  by  a  moth  that  flitted  duskily  over 
the  graves. 

"  Your  name,  sir,  I  think,  is  Simon  Gawtrey  1  "  said 
Morton.     "  I  have  come  to  England  in  quest  of  you. " 

"  Of  me  ?  "  said  the  old  man,  half  rising,  and  his  eyes, 
now  completely  blind,  roUod  vacantly  over  Morton's 
person,  —  "  of  me  1  —  for  what  ?  Who  are  you  1  —  I 
don't  know  your  voice !  " 

"  I  come  to  you  from  your  son !  " 

"My  son!  "  exclaimed  the  old  man,  with  great  vehe- 
mence, —  "  the  reprobate  !  —  the  dishonored  !  —  the  in- 
famous !  —  tlie  accursed  —  " 

"  Hush  !  you  revile  the  dead !  " 

"  Dead ! "  muttered  the  wretched  father,  tottering 
back  to  the  seat  he  had  quitted, —  "dead!"  and  the 
sound  of  his  voice  was  so  full  of  anguish  that  the  dog 
at  his  feet,  which  Morton  had  not  hitherto  perceived, 
echoed  it  with  a  dismal  cry  that  recalled  to  Philip  the 
awful  day  in  which  he  had  seen  the  son  quit  the  father 
for  the  last  time  on  earth. 

The  sound  brought  Fanny  to  the  spot;  and,  with  a 
laugh  of  delight,  which  made  to  it  a  strange  contrast, 
she  threw  herself  on  the  grass  beside  the  dog  and  sought 
to  entice  it  to  play.  So  there,  in  that  place  of  death, 
were  knit  together  the  four  links  in  the  great  chain: 
lusty  and  blooming  life;  desolate  and  doting  age;  in- 
fancy, yet  scarce  conscious  of  a  soul,  —  and  the  dumb 
brute,   that  has  no  warrant  of  a    hereafter! 

"  Dead  —  dead !  "  repeated  the  old  man,  covering 
his  sightless  balls  with  his  withered  hands.  "  Poor 
William!  " 

"  He  remembered  you  to  the  last.  He  bade  me  seek 
you  out;  he  bade  me  replace  the  guilty  son  with  a  thing 
pure  and  innocent,  as  he  had  been   had  he   died  in  his 


4*  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

cradle, —  a  child  to  comfort  your  old  age!  Kneel,  Fanny, 
I  have  found  you  a  father  who  will  cherish  you  (oh! 
you  will,  sir,  will  you  not  ?)  as  he  whom  you  may  see  no 
more ! " 

There  was  something  in  Morton's  voice  so  solemn 
that  it  awed  and  touched  both  the  old  man  and  the 
infant;  and  Fanny,  creeping  to  the  protector  thus 
assigned  to  her,  and  putting  her  little  hands  confidingly 
on  his  knees,  said, — 

"  Fanny  will  love  you  if  papa  wished  it.  Kiss 
Fanny." 

"  Is  it  his  child,  —  his  1  "  said  the  blind  man,  sobbing. 
"  Come  to  my  heart ;  here  —  here !  0  God,  forgive  me !  " 

Morton  did  not  think  it  right  at  that  moment  to  unde- 
ceive him  with  regard  to  the  poor  child's  true  connection 
with  the  deceased;  and  he  waited  in  silence  till  Simon, 
after  a  burst  of  passionate  grief  and  tenderness,  rose,  and, 
still  clasping  the  child  to  his  breast,  said, — 

"  Sir,  forgive  me !  —  I  am  a  very  weak  old  man :  I 
have  many  thanks  to  give, —  I  have  much,  too,  to  learn. 
My  poor  son !  he  did  not  die  in  want, —  did  he  t  " 

The  particulars  of  Gawtrey's  fate,  with  his  real  name 
and  the  various  aliases  he  had  assumed,  had  appeared  in 
the  French  journals,  and  been  partially  copied  into  the 
English;  and  Morton  had  expected  to  have  been  saved 
the  painful  narrative  of  that  fearful  death :  but  the  utter 
seclusion  of  the  old  man,  his  infirmity,  and  his  estranged 
habits,  had  shut  him  out  from  the  intelligence  that  it 
now  devolved  on  Philip  to  communicate.  Morton 
hesitated  a  little  before  he  answered, — 

"  It  is  late  now ;  you  are  not  yet  prepared  to  receive 
this  poor  infant  at  your  home,  nor  to  hear  the  details  I 
have  to  state.  I  arrived  in  England  but  to-day.  I  shall 
lodge  in  the  neighborhood,  for  it  is  dear  to  me.     If  I 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  49 

may  feel  sure,  then,  that  you  will  receive  and  treasure 
this  sacred  and  last  deposit  bequeathed  to  you  by  your 
luihappy  son,  I  will  bring  my  charge  to  you  to-morrow, 
and  we  will  then,  more  calmly  than  we  can  noAV,  talk 
over  the   past." 

"  You  do  not  answer  my  question, "  said  Simon,  pas- 
sionately ;  "  answer  that  and  I  will  wait  for  the  rest. 
They  call  me  a  miser  !  Did  I  send  out  my  only  child  to 
starve  1     Answer  that !  " 

"  Be  comforted.  He  did  not  die  in  want ;  and  he  has 
even  left  some  little  fortune  for  Fanny,  which  I  was  to 
place  in  your  hands." 

"  And  he  thought  to  bribe  the  old  miser  to  be  human ! 
Well,  well,  well!     I  will  go  home." 

"  Lean  on  me  !  " 

The  dog  leaped  playfully  on  his  master  as  the  latter 
rose,  and  Fanny  slid  from  Simon's  arms  to  caress  and 
talk  to  the  animal  in  her  own  way.  As  they  sloAvly 
passed  through  the  churchyard,  Simon  muttered  inco- 
herently to  himself  for  several  paces,  and  Morton  would 
not  disturb,  since  he  could  not  comfort,  him. 

At  last  he  said  abruptly,  "  Did  my  son  repent  ?  " 

"  I  hope, "  answered  Morton,  evasively,  "  that,  had 
his  life  been  spared,  he  would  have  amended!  " 

"  Tush,  sir !  —  I  am  past  seventy ;  we  repent !  —  we 
never  amend!  "  And  Simon  again  sunk  into  his  own 
dim  and  disconnected  reveries. 

At  length  they  arrived  at  the  blind  man's  house.  The 
door  was  opened  to  them  by  an  old  woman  of  disagreeable 
and  sinister  aspect,  dressed  out  much  too  gayly  for  the 
station  of  a  servant,  though  such  was  her  reputed  capa- 
city ;  but  the  miser's  affliction  saved  her  from  the  chance 
of  his  comment  on  her  extravagance.  As  she  stood  in 
the  doorway,   with  a  candle  in  her  hand,   she  scanned 

VOL.  II.  —  4 


50  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

curiously,    and    with   no   welcoming   eye,    her   master's 
companions. 

"  Mrs.  Boxer,  my  son  is  dead !  "  said  Simon,  in  a 
hollow  voice. 

"  And  a  good  thing  it  is,  then,  sir!  " 

"  For  shame,  woman, "  said  Morton,  indignantly. 

"  Hey-day  !  sir  !     Whom  have  we  got  here  ?  " 

"  One, "  said  Simon,  sternly,  "  whom  you  will  treat 
with  respect.  He  brings  me  a  blessing  to  lighten  my 
loss.  One  harsh  word  to  this  child,  and  you  quit  my 
house !  " 

The  woman  looked  perfectly  thunderstruck;  but, 
recovering  herself,  she  said  whiningly, — 

"  I !  a  harsh  word  to  anything  my  dear,  kind  master 
cares  for!  And,  Lord,  what  a  sweet,  pretty  creature  it 
is!     Come  here,  my  dear!  " 

But  Fanny  shrunk  back,  and  would  not  let  go  Philip's 
hand. 

"  To-morrow,  then, "  said  Morton ;  and  he  was  turning 
away,  when  a  sudden  thought  seemed  to  cross  the  old 
man, — 

"Stay,  sir, —  stay!  I  —  I  —  did  my  son  say  I  was 
rich  1  I  am  very,  very  poor,  —  nothing  in  the  house,  or 
I  should  have  been  robbed  long  ago!  " 

"  Your  son  told  me  to  bring  money,  not  to  ask  for  it !  " 

"  Ask  for  it !  No ;  but, "  added  the  old  man,  and  a 
gleam  of  cunning  intelligence  shot  over  his  face, —  "but 
he  had  got  into  a  bad  set.  Ask!  —  No!  —  Put  up  the 
door-chain,  Mrs.  Boxer!  " 

It  was  with  doubt  and  misgivings  that  Morton,  the 
next  day,  consigned  the  child,  who  had  already  nestled 
herself  into  the  warmest  core  of  his  heart,  to  the  care  of 
Simon.  Nothing  short  of  that  superstitious  respect  which 
all  men  owe  to  the  wishes  of  the  dead  would  have  made 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  51 

him  select  for  her  that  asylum;  for  fate  had  now,  in 
brightening  his  own  prospects,  given  him  an  alternative 
in  the  benevolence  of  Madame  de  Merville.  But  Gaw- 
trey  had  been  so  earnest  on  the  subject,  that  he  felt  as  if 
he  had  no  right  to  hesitate.  And  was  it  not  a  sort  of 
atonement  to  any  faults  the  son  miglit  have  committed 
against  the  parent,  to  place  by  the  old  man's  hearth  so 
sweet  a  charge  1 

The  strange  and  peculiar  mind  and  character  of 
Fanny  made  him,  however,  yet  more  anxious  than 
otherwise  he  might  have  been.  She  certainly  deserved 
not  the  harsh  name  of  imbecile  or  idiot,  but  she  was 
different  from  all  other  children ;  slie  felt  more  acutely 
than  most  of  her  age,  but  she  could  not  be  taught  to 
reason.  There  was  something  either  oblique  or  deficient 
in  her  intellect  which  justified  the  most  melancholy 
apprehensions;  yet,  often,  when  some  disordered,  incohe- 
rent, inexplicable  train  of  ideas  most  saddened  the 
listener,  it  would  be  followed  by  fancies  so  exquisite  in 
their  strangeness,  or  feelings  so  endearing  in  their  tender- 
ness, that  suddenly  she  seemed  as  much  above,  as  before 
she  seemed  below  the  ordinary  measiire  of  infant  compre- 
hension. She  was  like  a  creature  to  whicli  nature,  in 
some  cruel  but  bright  caprice,  has  given  all  that  belongs 
to  poetry,  but  denied  all  that  belongs  to  the  common 
\inderstanding  necessary  to  mankind;  or,  as  a  fairy 
changeling,  not,  indeed,  according  to  the  vulgar  supersti- 
tion, malignant  and  deformed,  but  lovelier  than  the 
children  of  men,  and  haunted  by  dim  and  struggling 
associations  of  a  gentler  and  fairer  being,  yet  wholly 
incapable  to  learn  the  dry  and  hard  elements  Avhich  make 
up  the  knowledge  of  actual  life. 

Morton  as  well  as  he  could,  sought  to  explain  to 
Simon  the  peculiarities  in  Fanny's  mental  constitution. 


52  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

He  urged  on  him  the  necessity  of  providing  for  her  care- 
ful instruction,  and  Simon  promised  to  send  her  to  the 
best  school  the  neigliborhood  could  afford;  but,  as  the 
old  man  spoke,  he  dwelt  so  much  on  the  supposed  fact 
that  Fanny  was  William's  daughter,  and  with  his  re- 
morse or  affection  there  ran  so  interwoven  a  thread  of 
selfishness  and  avarice,  that  Morton  thought  it  would  be 
dangerous  to  his  interest  in  the  child  to  undeceive  his 
error.  He,  therefore,  —  perhaps  excusably  enough,  — 
remained  silent  on  that  subject. 

Gawtrey  had  placed  with  the  superior  of  the  convent, 
together  with  an  order  to  give  up  the  child  to  any  one 
who  should  demand  her  in  his  true  name,  which  he  con- 
fided to  the  superior,  a  sum  of  nearly  £300,  which  he 
solemnly  swore  had  been  honestly  obtained,  and  which, 
in  all  his  shifts  and  adversities,  he  had  never  allowed 
himself  to  touch.  This  sum,  with  the  trifling  deduction 
made  for  arrears  due  to  the  convent,  Morton  now  placed 
in  Simon's  hands.  Tlie  old  man  clutched  the  money, 
which  was  for  the  most  in  French  gold,  with  a  convulsive 
gripe,   and  then,  as  if  ashamed  of  the  impulse,  said,  — 

"  But  you,  sir,  —  will  any  sum  —  that  is,  any  reason- 
able sura  —  be  of  use  to  you  1  " 

"  No !  and  if  it  were,  it  is  neither  yours  nor  mine, 

it  is  hers.      Save  it  for  her,  and  add  to  it  what  you  can. " 

While  this  conversation  took  place,  Fanny  had  been 
consigned  to  the  care  of  Mrs.  Boxer,  and  Philip  now 
rose  to  see  and  bid  her  farewell  before  he  departed. 

"  I  may  come  again  to  visit  you,  Mr.  Gawtrey ;  and  I 
pray  Heaven  to  find  that  you  and  Fanny  have  been  a 
mutual  blessing  to  each  other.  Oh,  remember  how  your 
son  loved  her !  " 

"  He  had  a  good  heart  in  spite  of  all  his  sins.  Poor 
William!  "  said  Simon. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  53 

Philip  Morton  heard,  and  his  lip  curled  with  a  sad 
and  a  just  disdain. 

If,  when  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  William  Gawtrey  had 
quitted  his  father's  roof,  the  father  had  then  remembered 
that  the  sou's  heart  was  good,  —  the  son  had  been  alive 
still,  an  honest  and  a  happy  man.  Do  ye  not  laugli,  0 
ye  all-listening  Fiends!  when  men  praise  those  dead 
whose  virtues  they  discovered  not  when  alive!  It  takes 
much  marble  to  build  the  sepulchre,  —  how  little  of  lath 
and  plaster  would  have  repaired  the  garret! 

On  turning  into  a  small  room  adjoining  the  parlor  in 
which  Gawtrey  sat,  Morton  found  Fanny  standing 
gloomily  by  a  dull,  soot-grimed  window,  which  looked 
out  on  the  dead  walls  of  a  small  yard.  Mrs.  Boxer, 
seated  by  a  table,  was  employed  in  trimming  a  cap,  and 
putting  questions  to  Fanny  in  that  falsetto  voice  of  en- 
dearment in  which  people  not  used  to  children  are  apt  to 
address  them. 

"  And  so,  my  dear,  they  've  never  taught  you  to  read 
or  write?     You  've  been  sadly  neglected,  poor  thing!  " 

"  We  must  do  our  best  to  supply  the  deficiency, "  said 
Morton,  as  he  entered. 

"  Bless  me,  sir,  is  that  you  ?  "  and  the  gouvernante 
bustled  up  and  dropped  a  low  courtesy;  for  Morton, 
dressed  then  in  the  garb  of  a  gentleman,  was  of  a  mien 
and  person  calculated  to  strike  the  gaze  of  the  vulgar. 

"  Ah,  brother  !  "  cried  Fanny,  for  by  that  name  he 
had  taught  her  to  call  him;  and  she  flew  to  his  side, 
"  Come  aAvay :  it 's  ugly  here,  —  it  makes  me  cold. " 

"  My  cliild,  I  told  you  you  must  stay ;  but  I  shall 
hope  to  see  you  again  some  day.  Will  you  not  be  kind 
to  this  poor  creature,  ma'am  1  Forgive  me  if  I  offended 
you  last  night,  and  favor  me  by  accepting  this  to  show 
that  we   are   friends."     As  he   spoke  he   slid   his  purse 


54  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

into  the  woman's  hand.     "  I  shall  feel  ever  grateful  for 
whatever  you  can  do  for  Fanny." 

"  Fanny  wants  nothing  from  any  one  else ;  Fanny 
wants  her  brother. " 

"  Sweet  child  !  I  fear  she  don't  take  to  me.  WiU  you 
like  me,  Miss  Fanny  ?  " 

"  Xo !  get  along  !  " 

"  Fie,  Fanny  !  —  you  remember  you  did  not  take  to 
me  at  first.  But  she  is  so  affectionate,  ma'am;  she 
never  forgets  a  kindness. " 

"  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  please  her,  sir.  And  so  she  is 
really  master's  grandchild  ?  "  The  woman  fixed  lier 
eyes,  as  she  spoke,  so  intently  on  Morton  that  he  felt 
embarrassed,  and  busied  himself,  without  answering, 
in  caressing  and  soothing  Fanny,  who  now  seemed  to 
awake  to  the  affliction  about  to  visit  her;  for  though  she 
did  not  weep,  —  she  very  rarely  wept,  —  her  slight  frame 
trembled,  her  eyes  closed,  her  cheeks,  even  her  lips, 
were  white,  and  her  delicate  hands  were  clasped  tightly 
round  the  neck  of  the  one  about  to  abandon  her  to 
strange  breasts. 

Morton  was  greatly  moved.  "  One  kiss,  Fanny !  and 
do  not  forget  me  when  we  meet  again." 

The  child  pressed  her  lips  to  his  cheek,  but  the  lips 
were  cold.  He  put  her  down  gently ;  she  stood  mute 
and  passive. 

"Remember  that  he  wished  me  to  leave  you  here," 
whispered  Morton,  using  an  argviment  that  never  failed, 
"  We  must  obey  him ;  and  so  —  God  bless  you,  Fanny !  " 

He  rose  and  retreated  to  the  door;  the  child  un- 
closed her  eyes,  and  gazed  at  him  with  a  strained, 
painful,  imploring  gaze ;  her  lips  moved,  but  she  did  not 
speak.  Morton  could  not  bear  tliat  silent  woe.  He 
sought  to  smile  on  her  consolingly,   but  the  smile  would 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  55 

not  come.     He  closed  the  door,   and  hurried  from  the 
house. 

From  that  day  Fanny  settled  into  a  kind  of  dreary, 
inanimate  stupor,  which  resembled  that  of  the  som- 
nambulist whom  the  magnetizer  forgets  to  waken. 
Hitherto,  with  all  the  eccentricities  or  deficiencies  of 
her  mind  had  mingled  a  wild  and  airy  gayety.  That 
was  vanished.  She  spoke  little,  she  never  played;  no 
toys  could  lure  her;  even  the  poor  dog  failed  to  win 
her  notice.  If  she  was  told  to  do  anything,  she  stared 
vacantly,  and  stirred  not.  She  evinced,  however,  a 
kind  of  dumb  regard  to  the  old  blind  man ;  she  would 
creep  to  his  knees,  and  sit  there  for  hours,  seldom  answer- 
ing when  he  addressed  her,  but  uneasy,  anxious,  and 
restless,   if  he  left  her. 

"  Will  you  die  too  ?  "  she  asked  once ;  the  old  man 
■understood  her  not,  and  she  did  not  try  to  explain. 
Early  one  morning,  some  days  after  Morton  was  gone, 
they  missed  her;  she  was  not  in  the  house,  nor  the  dull 
yard  where  she  was  sometimes  dismissed  and  told  to  play, 
—  told  in  vain.  In  great  alarm,  the  old  man  accused 
Mrs.  Boxer  of  having  spirited  her  away,  and  threatened 
and  stormed  so  loudly  that  the  woman,  against  her  will, 
went  forth  to  the  search.  At  last  she  found  the  child  in 
the  churchyard,  standing  wistfully  beside  a  tomb. 

"  What  do  you  here,  you  little  plague  1  "  said  Mrs. 
Boxer,   rudely  seizing  her  by  the   arm. 

"  This  is  the  Avay  they  will  both  come  back  some  day ! 
I  dreamed  so !  " 

"  If  ever  I  catch  you  here  again !  "  said  the  house- 
keeper ;  and,  wiping  her  brow  with  one  hand,  she  struck 
the  child  with  the  other.  Fanny  had  never  been  struck 
before.  She  recoiled  in  terror  and  amazement,  and, 
for  the  first  time  since  her  arrival,   burst  into  tears. 


56  NIGHT   AND   MOENINa. 

"Come,  come,  — no  crying!  and  if  you  tell  master, 
I  '11  beat  you  within  an  inch  of  your  life !  "  So  saying, 
she  caught  Fanny  in  her  arms;  and,  Avalking  about, 
scolding  and  menacing,  till  she  had  frightened  back 
the  child's  tears,  she  returned  triumphantly  to  the 
house,  and,  bursting  into  the  parlor,  exclaimed,  "  Here  'a 
the  little  darling,  sir!  " 

When  old  Simon  learned  where  the  child  had  been 
found,  he  was  glad ;  for  it  was  his  constant  habit,  when- 
ever the  evening  was  fine,  to  glide  out  to  that  church- 
yard, —  his  dog  his  guide,  —  and  sit  on  his  one  favorite 
spot  opposite  the  setting  sun.  This,  not  so  much  for 
the  sanctity  of  the  place,  or  the  meditations  it  might 
inspire,  as  because  it  was  the  nearest,  the  safest,  and  the 
loneliest  spot  in  the  neighborhood  of  his  home,  where 
the  blind  man  could  inhale  the  air,  and  bask  in  the  light 
of  heaven.  Hitherto,  thinking  it  sad  for  the  child,  he 
had  never  taken  her  with  him ;  indeed,  at  the  hour  of 
his  monotonous  excursion,  she  had  generally  been  ban- 
ished to  bed.  Now  she  was  permitted  to  accompany 
him;  and  the  old  man  and  the  infant  would  sit  there 
side  by  side,  as  age  and  infancy  rested  side  by  side  in  the 
graves  beloAV.  The  first  symptom  of  childlike  interest 
and  curiosity  that  Fanny  betrayed  was  awakened  by  the 
affliction  of  her  protector.  One  evening,  as  they  thus 
sat,  she  made  him  explain  what  the  desolation  of  blind- 
ness is.  She  seemed  to  comprehend  him,  though  he  did 
not  seek  to  adapt  his  complaints  to  her  understanding. 

"  Fanny  knows, "  said  she,  touchingly  ;  "  for  she,  too, 
is  blind  here ; "  and  she  pressed  her  hands  to  her 
temples. 

Notwithstanding  her  silence  and  strange  ways,  and 
although  he  could  not  see  the  exquisite  loveliness  which 
nature,  as  in  remorseful  pity,  had  lavished  on  her  out' 


NIGHT   AND   JIORNING.  57 

ward  form,  Simon  soon  learned  to  love  her  hotter  than 
lie  had  ever  loved  yet:  for  they  most  cold  to  tlie  child 
are  often  dotards  to  the  grandchild.  For  her  even  his 
avarice  slept.  Dainties  never  before  known  at  his  spar- 
ing board  were  ordered  to  tempt  her  appetite ;  toy-shops 
ransacked  to  amuse  her  indolence.  He  was  long,  how- 
ever, before  he  could  prevail  on  himself  to  fulfil  his 
promise  to  Morton,  and  rob  himself  of  her  presence. 
At  length,  however,  wearied  with  Mrs.  Boxer's  lamen- 
tations at  her  ignorance,  and  alarmed  himself  at  some 
evidences  of  helplessness  which  made  him  dread  to 
think  what  her  future  might  be  when  left  alone  in  life, 
he  placed  her  at  a  day-school  in  the  suburb.  Here 
Fanny,  for  a  considerable  time,  justified  the  harshest 
assertions  of  her  stupidity.  She  could  not  even  keep  her 
eyes  two  minutes  together  on  the  page  from  which  she 
M'^as  to  learn  the  mysteries  of  reading;  months  passed 
before  she  mastered  the  alphabet,  and,  a  month  after, 
she  had  again  forgot  it,  and  the  labor  was  renewed.  The 
only  thing  in  which  she  showed  ability,  if  so  it  might  be 
called,  was  in  the  use  of  the  needle.  The  sisters  of  the 
convent  had  already  taught  her  many  pretty  devices  in 
this  art,  and  when  she  found  that  at  the  scliool  they 
were  admired,  —  that  she  was  praised  instead  of  blamed, 
—  her  vanity  was  pleased,  and  she  learned  so  readily  all 
that  they  could  teach  in  this  not  unprofitable  accomplish- 
ment, that  Mrs.  Boxer  slyly  and  secretly  turned  her 
tasks  to  account,  and  made  a  weekly  perquisite  of  the 
poor  pupil's  industry.  Another  faculty  she  possessed,  in 
common  with  persons  usually  deficient,  and  with  the 
lower  species,  —  namely,  a  most  accurate  and  faithful 
recollection  of  places.  At  first  Mrs.  Boxer  had  been 
duly  sent  morning,  noon,  and  evening,  to  take  her  to,  or 
bring  her   from,    the   school;   but   this  was   so   great  a 


58  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

grievance  to  Simon's  solitary  superintendent,  and  Fanny 
coaxed  the  old  man  so  endearingly  to  allow  her  to  go  and 
return  alone,  that  the  attendance,  unwelcome  to  both, 
was  Avaived.  Fanny  exulted  in  this  liberty;  and  she 
never,  in  going  or  in  returning,  missed  passing  through 
the  burial-ground,  and  gazing  wistfully  at  the  tomb  from 
■which  she  yet  believed  Morton  would  one  day  reappear. 
With  his  memory,  she  cherished  also  that  of  her  earlier 
and  more  guilty  protector ;  but  they  were  separate  feel- 
ings,  which  she  distinguished  in  her  own  way,  — 

"  Papa  had  given  her  up.  She  knew  that  he  would 
not  have  sent  her  away,  far,  far  over  the  great  water, 
if  he  had  meant  to  see  Fanny  again;  but  her  brother 
was  forced  to  leave  her,  —  he  would  come  to  life  one 
day,  and  then  they  should  live  together!  " 

One  day,  towards  the  end  of  autumn,  as  her  school- 
mistress, a  good  woman  on  the  whole,  but  who  had  not 
yet  had  the  wit  to  discover  by  what  cliords  to  tune  the 
instrument,  over  Avhich  so  wearily  she  drew  her  unskil- 
ful hand,  —  one  day,  we  say,  the  schoolmistress  hap- 
pened to  be  dressed  for  a  christening  party  to  Avhich  she 
was  invited  in  the  suburb;  and,  accordingly,  after  the 
morning  lessons,  the  pupils  were  to  be  dismissed  to  a 
holiday.  As  Fanny  now  came  last,  with  tlie  hopeless 
spelling-book,  she  stopped  suddenly  short,  and  her 
eyes  rested  with  avidity  upon  a  large  bouquet  of  exotic 
flowers  with  which  the  good  lady  had  enlivened  the 
centre  of  the  parted  kerchief,  whose  yellow  gauze  mod- 
estly veiled  that  tender  section  of  female  beauty  which 
poets  have  likened  to  hills  of  snow,  — a  chilling  simile! 
It  was  then  autumn ;  and  field,  and  even  garden  flowers 
were  growing  rare. 

"  Will  you  give  me  one  of  those  flowers  1  "  said  Fannj'^, 
dropping  her  book. 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  59 

"  One  of  these  flowers,  child!  why?  " 

Fanny  did  not  answer;  but  one  of  the  elder  and 
cleverer  girls,  said, — 

"Oh!  she  comes  from  France,  you  know,  ma'am,  and 
the  Koraan  Catholics  put  flowers  and  riltbons  and 
things  over  the  graves;  you  recollect,  ma'am,  we  were 
reading  yesterday  about  Pere-la-Chaise  1  " 

"Well,  what  then?" 

"  And  Miss  Fanny  will  do  any  kind  of  work  for  us  if 
we  will  give  her  flowers." 

"  My  brother  told  me  where  to  put  them :  but  these 
pretty  flowers,  I  never  had  any  like  them;  thei/  may 
bring  him  back  again!  I  '11  be  so  good  if  you  '11  give 
me  one,  —  only  one!  " 

"  Will  you  learn  your  lesson  if  I  do,  Fanny  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes!     Wait  a  moment!  " 

And  Fanny  stole  back  to  her  desk,  put  the  hateful 
book  resolutely  before  her,  pressed  both  hands  tightly  on 
her  temples, — Eureka,  the  chord  was  touched;  and 
Fanny  marched  in  triumph  through  half  a  column  of 
hostile  double-syllables! 

From  that  day  the  schoolmistress  kneAV  how  to  stimu- 
late her,  and  Fanny  learned  to  read :  her  path  to  knowl- 
edge thus  literally  strewn  with  flowers!  Catherine,  thy 
children  were  far  ofi",  and  thy  grave  looked  gay! 

It  naturally  happened  that  those  short  and  simple 
rhymes,  often  sacred,  which  are  repeated  in  schools  as 
helps  to  memory,  made  a  part  of  her  studies;  and  no 
sooner  had  the  sound  of  verse  struck  upon  her  fancy  than 
it  seemed  to  confuse  and  agitate  anew  all  her  senses. 
It  was  like  the  music  of  some  breeze,  to  which  dance 
and  tremble  all  the  young  leaves  of  a  wild  plant.  Even 
when  at  the  convent  she  had  been  fond  of  repeating  the 
infant  rhymes  with  which  they  had  sought  to  lull,  or  to 


60  NIGHT   AND   MOKNING. 

amuse  her;  b\;t  now  the  taste  was  more  strongly  devel- 
oped. She  confounded,  however,  in  meaningless  and 
motley  disorder,  the  various  snatches  of  song  that  came 
to  her  ear,  weaving  them  together  in  some  form  which 
she  understood,  but  which  was  jargon  to  all  others;  and 
often,  as  she  went  alone  through  the  green  lanes  or 
the  hustling  streets,  the  passenger  would  turn  in  pity 
and  fear  to  hear  her  half  chant,  half  murmur,  ditties 
that  seemed  to  suit  only  a  wandering  and  unsettled 
imagination.  And  as  Mrs.  Boxer,  in  her  visits  to  the 
various  shops  in  the  suburb,  took  care  to  bemoan  her 
hard  fate  in  attending  to  a  creature  so  evidently  moon- 
stricken,  it  was  no  wonder  that  the  manner  and  habits 
of  the  child,  coupled  with  that  strange  predilection  to 
haunt  the  burial-ground,  which  is  not  uncommon  with 
persons  of  weak  and  disordered  intellect,  confirmed  the 
character  thus  given  to  her. 

So,  as  slie  tripped  gayly  and  lightly  along  the  thor- 
oughfares, the  cliildren  would  draw  aside  from  her  path, 
and  whisper,  with  superstitious  fear  mingled  with  con- 
tempt, "  It 's  the  idiot  girl !  "  Idiot!  —  how  much  more 
of  Heaven's  light  was  there  in  that  cloud  than  in  the 
rushlights  that,  flickering  in  sordid  chambers,  shed  on 
dull  things  the  dull  ray,  —  esteeming  themselves  as 
stars ! 

Months,  years,  passed ;  Fanny  was  thirteen,  when  there 
dawned  a  new  era  to  her  existence.  Mrs.  Boxer  had 
never  got  over  her  first  griidge  to  Fanny.  Her  treat- 
ment of  the  poor  girl  was  always  harsh,  and  sometimes 
cruel.  But  Fanny  did  not  complain;  and  as  Mrs. 
Boxer's  manner  to  her  before  Simon  was  invariably 
cringing  and  caressing,  the  old  man  never  guessed  the 
hardships  his  supposed  grandchild  underwent.  There 
had  been  scandal  some  years  back  in  the  suburb  about 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  61 

the  relative  connection  of  the  master  and  the  house- 
keeper; and  the  flaunting  dress  of  the  latter,  something 
bold  in  her  regard,  and  certain  whispers  that  her  youth 
had  not  been  vowed  to  Vesta,  confirmed  the  suspicion. 
The  only  reason  why  we  do  not  feel  sure  that  the  rumor 
was  false  is  this,  —  Simon  Gawtrey  had  been  so  hard  on 
the  early  follies  of  his  son!  Certainly,  at  all  events,  the 
Avoman  had  exercised  great  influence  over  the  miser 
before  the  arrival  of  Fanny,  and  she  had  done  much  to 
steel  his  selfishness  against  the  ill-fated  William. 
And,  as  certainly,  she  had  fully  calculated  on  succeed- 
ing to  the  savings,  whatever  they  might  be,  of  the  miser, 
whenever  Providence  should  be  pleased  to  terminate  his 
days.  She  knew  that  Simon  had,  many  years  back, 
made  his  will  in  her  favor ;  she  knew  that  he  had  not 
altered  that  will:  she  believed,  therefore,  that  in  spite 
of  all  his  love  for  Fanny,  he  loved  his  gold  so  much 
more  that  he  could  not  accustom  himself  to  the  thought 
of  bequeathing  it  to  hands  too  helpless  to  guard  the 
treasure.  This  had  in  some  measure  reconciled  the 
housekeeper  to  the  intruder,  whom,  nevertheless,  she 
hated  as  a  dog  hates  another  dog,  not  only  for  taking 
his  bone,  but  for  looking  at  it. 

But  suddenly  Simon  fell  ill.  His  age  made  it  prob- 
able he  would  die.  He  took  to  his  bed :  his  breathing 
grew  fainter  and  fainter,  —  he  seemed  dead.  Fanny, 
all  unconscious,  sat  by  his  bedside  as  usual,  holding 
her  breath  not  to  waken  him.  Mrs.  Boxer  flew  to  the 
bureau;  she  unlocked  it.  She  could  not  find  the  will; 
but  she  found  three  bags  of  bright  old  guineas.  The 
sight  charmed  her.  She  tumbled  them  forth  on  the 
distained  green  cloth  of  the  bureau,  —  she  began  to 
count  them;  and  at  that  moment  the  old  man,  as  if 
there  were  a  secret  magnetism  between  himself  and  the 


62  NIGHT  AND   MOP.NIXG. 

guineas,  woke  from  his  trance.  His  blindness  saved 
hiui  tlie  pain  that  might  have  been  fatal,  of  seeing  the 
unhallowed  profanation;  but  he  heard  the  chink  of  the 
metal.  The  very  sound  restored  his  strength.  But  the 
infirm  are  always  cunning,  —  he  breathed  not  a  suspicion. 
"  jNIrs.  Boxer,"  said  he,  faintly,  "I  think  I  could  take 
some  broth."  Mrs.  Boxer  rose  in  great  dismay,  gently 
reclosed  the  bureau,  and  ran  downstairs  for  the  broth. 
Simon  took  the  occasion  to  question  Fanny;  and  no 
sooner  had  he  learned  the  operation  of  the  heir-expectant, 
than  he  bade  the  girl  first  lock  the  bureau  and  bring  him 
the  key,  and  next  run  to  a  lawyer  (whose  address  he 
gave  her),  and  fetch  him  instantly. 

With  a  malignant  smile  the  old  man  took  the  broth 
from  his  handmaid,  "  Poor  Boxer,  you  are  a  disinter- 
ested creature,"  said  he,  feebly;  "  I  think  you  will 
grieve  when  I  go." 

Mrs.  Boxer  sobbed;  and  before  she  had  recovered,  the 
lawyer  entered.  That  day  a  new  will  was  made;  and 
the  lawyer  politely  informed  Mrs.  Boxer  that  her  ser- 
vices would  be  dispensed  with  the  next  morning,  when 
he  should  bring  a  nurse  to  the  house.  Mrs.  Boxer 
heard,  and  took  her  resolution.  As  soon  as  Simon  again 
fell  asleep,  she  crept  into  the  room,  led  away  Fanny, 
locked  her  up  in  her  own  chamber,  returned,  searched 
for  the  key  of  the  bureau,  which  she  found  at  last  under 
Simon's  pillow,  possessed  herself  of  all  she  could  lay 
her  hands  on,  and  the  next  morning  she  had  disap- 
peared forever!  Simon's  loss  was  greater  than  might 
have  been  .supposed;  for,  except  a  trifling  sum  in  the 
Savings'  Bank,  he,  like  many  other  misers,  kept  all  he 
had,  in  notes  or  specie,  under  his  own  lock  and  key. 
His  whole  fortune,  indeed,  was  far  less  than  was  sup- 
posed; for  money  does  not  make  money  unless  it  is  put 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  03 

out  to  interest,  —  and  the  miser  cheated  himself.  Such 
portion  as  was  in  bank-notes  Mrs.  Boxer  probably  had 
the  prudence  to  destroy ;  for  those  numbers  which  Simoii 
could  remember  were  never  traced;  the  gold,  who  could 
swear  to?  Except  the  pittance  in  the  Savings'  Bank, 
and  whatever  might  be  the  paltry  worth  of  the  house  ha 
rented,  the  father  who  had  enriched  the  menial  to 
exile  the  son  was  a  beggar  in  his  dotage.  This  news, 
however,  was  carefully  concealed  from  him  by  the 
advice  of  the  doctor,  whom,  on  his  own  responsibility, 
the  lawyer  introduced,  till  he  had  recovered  sufficiently 
to  bear  the  shock  without  danger ;  and  the  delay  natu- 
rally favored  Mrs.  Boxer's  escape. 

Simon  remained  for  some  moments  perfectly  stunned 
and  speechless  when  the  news  was  broken  to  him. 
Fanny,  in  alarm  at  his  increasing  paleness,  sprang  to 
his  breast.  He  pushed  her  away,  "  Go,  go,  go, 
child!  "  he  said;  "I  can't  feed  you  now.  Leave  me  to 
starve." 

"  To  starve!  "  said  Fanny,  wonderingly ;  and  she  stole 
away,  and  sat  herself  down  as  if  in  deep  thought.  She 
then  crept  uj)  to  the  lawyer  as  he  was  about  to  leave  the 
room,  after  exhausting  his  stock  of  common-place  con- 
solation, and  putting  her  hand  in  his,  whispered,  "  I 
want  to  talk  to  you,  —  this  way."  She  led  him  through 
the  passage  into  the  open  air.  "Tell  me,"  she  said, 
"  when  poor  people  try  not  to  starve,  don't  they  work  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  yes. " 

"  For  rich  people  buy  poor  people's  work?  " 

"  Certainly,  my  dear ;  to  be  sure. " 

"  Very  well.  Mrs.  Boxer  used  to  sell  my  work. 
Fanny  will  feed  grandpapa!  Go  and  tell  him  never  to 
say  '  starve  '  again." 

The    good-natured    lawyer    was   moved,    "  Can    you 


64  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

work,  indeed,  my  poor  girl  ?  Well,  put  on  your  Lonnet, 
and  come  and  talk  to  my  wife. " 

And  that  was  the  new  era  in  Fanny's  existence!  Her 
schooling  was  stopped;  but  now  life  schooled  her. 
Necessity  ripened  her  intellect.  And  many  a  hard  eye 
moistened,  as,  seeing  her  glide  with  her  little  basket  of 
fancy-work  along  the  streets,  still  murmuring  her  happy 
and  bird-like  snatches  of  unconnected  song,  men  and 
children  alike  said  with  respect,  in  Avhich  there  was  now 
no  contempt,  "  It 's  the  idiot  girl  who  supports  her  blind 
grandfather!  " 

They  called  her  idiot  still ! 


BOOK   IV. 

SQin  \u  einem  grofeen  Meexe 
%tieb  mic^  jeiner  iBetlen  Spiet ; 

93or  mir  liegt'S  in  inciter  Sieere, 
^Jialjer  bin  ic^  nidjt  bem  ^icl. 

Schiller:  Der  Pilgrim. 


VOL.  II.  —  5 


BOOK  IV. 


CHAPTER   I. 

Oh,  that  sweet  gleam  of  sunshine  on  the  lake  ! 

Wilson's  City  of  the  Plague. 

If,  reader,  you  have  ever  looked  through  a  solar  micro- 
scope at  the  monsters  in  a  drop  of  water,  perhaps  you 
have  wondered  to  yourself  how  things  so  terrihle  have 
been  hitherto  unknown  to  you,  you  have  felt  a  loathing 
at  the  limpid  element  you  hitherto  deemed  so  pure, 
you  have  half  fancied  that  you  would  cease  to  be  a 
water-drinker ;  yet  the  next  day  you  have  forgotten  the 
grim  life  that  started  before  you,  with  its  countless 
shapes,  in  that  teeming  globule,  and,  if  so  tempted  by 
your  thirst,  you  have  not  shrunk  from  the  lying  crystal, 
although  myriads  of  the  horrible  vmseen  are  mangling, 
devouring,  gorging  each  other,  in  the  liquid  you  so 
tranquilly  imbil>e :  so  is  it  with  that  ancestral  and  mas- 
ter element  called  life.  Lapped  in  your  sleek  comforts, 
and  lolling  on  the  sofa  of  your  patent  conscience, — 
when,  perhaps  for  the  first  time,  you  look  through  the 
glass  of  science  upon  one  ghastly  globule  in  the  waters 
that  heave  around,  that  fill  up,  with  their  succulence, 
the  pores  of  earth,  that  moisten  every  atom  subject  to 
your  eyes,  or  handled  by  your  touch,  —  you  are  startled 
and  dismayed;  you  say,  mentally,  "  Can  such  things  be? 
I  never   dreamed  of  this  before!     I  thought  what  was 


68  KIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

invisible  to  me  was  non-existent  in  itself,  —  I  will 
remember  this  dread  experiment."  The  next  day  the 
experiment  is  forgotten.  The  chemist  may  purify  the 
globule,  —  can  science  make  pure  the  world  ? 

Turn  we  now  to  the  pleasant  surface,  seen  in  the  whole, 
broad  and  fair  to  the  common  eye.  Who  would  judge 
well  of  God's  great  designs,  if  he  could  look  on  no  drop 
pendent  from  the  rose-tree,  or  sparkling  in  the  sun,  with- 
out the  help  of  his  solar  microscope  ? 

It  is  ten  years  after  the  night  on  which  William 
Gawtrey  perished.  I  transport  you,  reader,  to  the  fair- 
est scenes  in  England,  —  scenes  consecrated  by  the  only 
true  pastoral  poetry  we  have  known,  to  contemplation 
and  repose. 

Autumn  had  begun  to  tinge  the  foliage  on  the  banks 
of  Winandermere.  It  had  been  a  summer  of  unusual 
warmth,  and  beauty;  and  if  that  year  you  had  visited 
the  English  lakes,  you  might,  from  time  to  time,  amidst 
the  groups  of  happy  idlers  you  encountered,  have  singled 
out  two  persons  for  interest,  or,  perhaps,  for  envy. 
Two  who  might  have  seemed  to  you  in  peculiar  harmony 
■with  those  serene  and  soft  retreats,  both  young,  both 
beautiful.  Lovers  you  would  have  guessed  them  to  be; 
but  such  lovers  as  Fletclier  miglit  have  placed  under  the 
care  of  his  "  Holy  Shepherdess,"  —  forms  that  might  have 
reclined  by 

"  The  virtuous  well,  about  whose  flowery  banks 
The  nimble  footed  fairies  dance  their  rounds 
By  the  pale  nioonshiiie." 

For  in  the  love  of  those  persons  there  seemed  a  purity 
and  innocence  that  suited  well  their  youth  and  the  char- 
acter of  their  beauty.  Perhaps,  indeed,  on  the  girl's 
side,  love  sprung  rather  from  those  affections  which  the 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  69 

spring  of  life  throws  upward  to  the  surface,  as  the  spring 
of  earth  does  its  flowers,  than  from  that  concentrated 
and  deep  absorption  of  self  in  self,  wliich  alone  promises 
endurance  and  devotion,  and  of  which  first  love,  or  rather 
the  first  fancy,  is  often  less  susceptible  than  that  which 
grows  out  of  the  more  thoughtful  fondness  of  maturer 
years.  Yet  he,  the  lover,  was  of  so  rare  and  singular  a 
beauty,  that  he  might  well  seem  calculated  to  awaken, 
to  the  utmost,  the  love  which  wins  the  heart  through 
the  eyes. 

But  to  begin  at  the  beginning.  A  lady  of  fashion  had, 
in  the  autumn  previous  to  the  year  on  which  our  narra- 
tive reopens,  tf'ken,  with  her  daughter,  a  girl  then  of 
about  eighteen,  the  tour  of  the  English  lakes.  Charmed 
by  the  beauty  of  Winandermere,  and  finding  one  of  the 
most  commodious  villas  on  its  banks  to  be  let,  they 
had  remained  there  all  the  winter.  In  the  early  spring 
a  severe  illness  had  seized  the  elder  lady,  and  finding 
herself,  as  she  slowly  recovered,  unfit  for  the  gayeties 
of  a  London  season ,  nor  unwilling,  perhaps  —  for  she 
had  been  a  beauty  in  her  day  —  to  postpone  for  another 
year  the  debut  of  her  daughter,  she  had  continued  her 
sojourn,  with  short  intervals  of  absence,  for  a  whole 
year.  Her  husband,  a  busy  man  of  the  world,  with 
occupation  in  London,  and  fine  estates  in  the  country, 
joined  them  only  occasionally,  glad  to  escape  the  still 
beauty  of  landscapes  which  brought  him  no  rental,  and 
therefore  afforded  no  charm  to  his  eye. 

In  the  first  month  of  their  arrival  at  Winandermere, 
the  mother  and  daughter  had  made  an  eventful  acquain- 
tance in  the  following  manner. 

One  evening,  as  they  were  walking  on  their  lawn, 
which  sloped  to  the  lake,  they  heard  the  sound  of  a 
flute,  played  with  a  skill  so  exquisite  as  to  draw  them, 


70  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

surprised  and  spell-bound,  to  the  banks.  The  musician 
Avas  a  young  man  in  a  boat,  which  he  had  moored 
beneath  the  trees  of  their  demesne.  He  was  alone,  or 
rather,  he  had  one  companion  in  a  large  Newfoundland 
dog  that  sat  watchful  at  the  helm  of  the  boat  and 
appeared  to  enjoy  the  music  as  much  as  his  master. 
As  the  ladies  approached  the  spot,  the  dog  growled,  and 
the  young  man  ceased,  though  without  seeing  the  fair 
causes  of  his  companion's  displeasure.  The  sun,  then 
setting,  shone  full  on  his  countenance  as  he  looked 
round ;  and  that  countenance  was  one  that  might  have 
haunted  the  nymphs  of  Delos:  the  face  of  Apollo,  not  as 
the  hero,  but  the  shepherd;  not  of  tlie  bow,  but  of  the 
lute ;  not  the  Python-slayer,  but  the  young  dreamer  by 
shady  places,  —  he  whom  the  sculptor  has  portrayed  lean- 
ing idly  against  the  tree,  the  boy-god  whose  home  is 
yet  on  earth,  and  to  whom  the  Oracle  and  the  Spheres 
are  still  unknown. 

At  that  moment  the  dog  leaped  from  the  boat,  and  the 
elder  lady  uttered  a  faint  cry  of  alarm,  which  directing 
the  attention  of  the  musician,  brought  him  also  ashore. 
He  called  off  his  dog,  and  apologized,  with  a  not  ungrace- 
ful mixture  of  diffidence  and  ease,  for  his  intrusion.  He 
was  not  aware  the  j)lace  was  inhabited :  it  was  a  favorite 
haunt  of  his, —  he  lived  near.  The  elder  lady  was 
pleased  with  his  address,  and  struck  with  his  appearance. 
There  was,  indeed,  in  his  manner  that  undefinable  charm 
which  is  more  attractive  than  mere  personal  appearance, 
and  which  can  never  be  imitated  or  acquired.  They 
parted,  however,  without  establishing  any  formal  ac- 
quaintance. A  few  days  after,  they  met  at  dinner  at  a 
neighlx)ring  house,  and  were  introduced  by  name.  Tliat 
of  the  young  man  seemed  strange  to  the  ladies;  not  so 
theirs  to  him.     He  turned  pale  when  he  heard  it,  and 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  71 

remained  silent  and  aloof  the  rest  of  the  evening.  They 
met  again  and  often ;  and  for  some  weeks  —  nay,  even 
for  months  —  he  appeared  to  avoid  as  much  as  possible  the 
acquaintance  so  auspiciously  begun ;  but  by  little  and  lit- 
tle the  beauty  of  the  younger  lady  seemed  to  gain  ground 
on  his  diffidence  or  repugnance  Excurpions  among  the 
neighboring  mountains  threw  tliem  together,  and  at  last 
he  fairly  surrendered  himself  to  the  charm  he  had  at 
first  determined  to  resist. 

This  young  man  lived  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
lake,  in  a  quiet  household,  of  which  he  was  the  idol. 
His  life  had  been  one  of  almost  monastic  purity  and 
repose ;  his  tastes  were  accomplished,  his  character  seemed 
soft  and  gentle;  but  beneath  that  calm  exterior,  Hashes 
of  passion  —  the  nature  of  the  poet,  ardent  and  sensitive 
—  would  break  forth  at  times.  He  had  scarcely  ever, 
since  his  earliest  childhood,  quitted  those  retreats;  he 
knew  nothing  of  the  world,  except  in  books,  —  books  of 
poetry  and  romance.  Those  with  whom  he  lived  —  his 
relations,  an  old  bachelor,  and  the  old  bachelor's  sisters, 
old  maids  —  seemed  equally  innocent  and  inexperienced. 
It  was  a  family  whom  the  rich  respected,  and  the  poor 
loved,  —  inoffensive,  charitable,  and  well  off.  To  what- 
ever their  easy  fortune  might  be,  he  appeared  the  heir. 
The  name  of  this  young  man  was  Charles  Spencer;  the 
ladies  were  Mrs.  Beaufort,  and  Camilla  her  daughter. 

Mrs.  Beaufort,  though  a  shrewd  woman,  did  not  at 
first  perceive  any  danger  in  the  growing  intimacy  between 
Camilla  and  the  younger  Spencer.  Her  daughter  was 
not  her  favorite,  —  not  the  object  of  her  one  thought  or 
ambition.  Her  whole  heart  and  soul  were  wrapped  in 
her  son  Arthur,  who  lived  principally  abroad.  Clever 
enough  to  be  considered  capable,  when  he  pleased,  of 
achieving  distinction,  good-looking  enough  to  be  thought 


72  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

handsome  by  all  who  were  on  the  qui  vive  for  an  advan- 
tageous match,  good-natnred  enough  to  be  popular  with 
the  society  in  which  he  lived,  scattering  to  and  fro  money 
without  limit,  Arthur  Beaufort,  at  the  age  of  thirty, 
had  established  one  of  those  brilliant  and  evanescent 
reputations,  which,  for  a  few  years,  reward  the  ambition 
of  the  fine  gentleman.  It  was  precisely  the  reputation 
that  the  mother  could  appreciate,  and  which  even  the 
more  saving  father  secretly  admired,  while,  ever  respect- 
able in  phrase,  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  seemed  openly  to 
regret  it.  This  son  was,  I  say,  everything  to  them; 
they  cared  little,  in  comparison,  for  their  daughter. 
How  could  a  daughter  keep  up  the  proud  name  of  Beau- 
fort? However  well  she  might  marry,  it  was  another 
house,  not  theirs,  which  her  graces  and  beauty  would 
adorn.  Moreover,  the  better  she  might  marry,  the 
greater  her  dowry  would  naturally  be, —  the  dowry  to  go 
out  of  the  family !  And  Arthur,  poor  fellow !  was  so 
extravagant  that  really  he  would  want  every  sixpence. 
Such  was  the  reasoning  of  the  father.  The  mother  rea- 
soned less  upon  the  matter.  Mrs.  Beaufort,  faded  and 
meagre,  in  blonde  and  cashmere,  was  jealous  of  the 
charms  of  her  daughter;  and  she  herself,  growing  senti- 
mental and  lachrymose  as  she  advanced  in  life,  as  silly 
women  often  do,  had  convinced  herself  that  Camilla  was 
a  girl  of  no  feeling. 

Miss  Beaufort  was,  indeed,  of  a  character  singularly 
calm  and  placid ;  it  was  the  character  that  charms  men  in 
proportion,  perhaps,  to  their  own  strength  and  passion. 
She  had  been  rigidly  brought  up;  her  affections  had 
been  very  early  chilled  and  subdued;  they  moved,  there- 
fore, now  with  ease,  in  the  serene  path  of  her  duties. 
She  held  her  parents,  especially  her  father  in  reverential 
fear,  and  never  dreamed  of  the  possibility  of  resisting  one 


NIGHT   AND   MOHNING.  73 

of  their  wishes,  much  less  tlieir  commands.  Pious,  kind, 
gentle,  of  a  fine  and  never-ruffled  temper,  Camilla,  an 
admirable  daughter,  was  likely  to  make  no  less  admira- 
ble a  Avife;  you  might  depend  on  her  principles,  if  ever 
you  could  doubt  her  affection.  Few  girls  were  more 
calculated  to  inspire  love.  You  would  scarcely  wonder  at 
any  folly,  any  madness,  which  even  a  wise  man  might 
commit  for  her  sake.  This  did  not  depend  on  her 
beauty  alone,  though  she  was  extremely  lovely  rather 
than  handsome,  and  of  that  style  of  loveliness  which  is 
universally  fascinating:  the  figure,  especially  as  to  the 
arms,  throat,  and  bust,  was  exquisite ;  the  mouth  dim- 
pled ;  the  teeth  dazzling ;  the  eyes  of  that  velvet  softness 
which  to  look  on  is  to  love.  But  her  charm  was  in  a 
certain  prettiness  of  manner,  an  exceeding  innocence, 
mixed  with  the  most  captivating,  because  unconscious, 
coquetry.  With  all  this,  there  was  a  freshness,  a  joy, 
a  virgin  and  bewitching  candor  in  her  voice,  her  laugh, — 
you  might  almost  say  in  her  very  movements.  Such  was 
Camilla  Beaufort  at  that  age.  Such  she  seemed  to 
others.  To  her  parents  she  was  only  a  great  girl  rather 
in  the  way.  To  Mrs.  Beaufort  a  rival,  to  Mr.  Beaufort 
an  encumbrance  on  the  property. 


74  NIGHT   AIsD   MORNING. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  moon 
Saddening  the  solemn  night,  yet  with  that  sadness 
Mingling  the  breath  of  undisturbed  Peace. 

Wilson  ;  City  of  the  Plague, 

Tell  me  his  fate. 
Say  that  he  lives,  or  say  that  he  is  dead : 
But  tell  me  —  tell  me  ! 


I  see  him  not  —  some  cloud  envelops  him. 


Ibid. 


One  day  (nearly  a  year  after  their  first  introduction), 
as  with  a  party  of  friends  Camilla  and  Charles  Spencer 
were  riding  through  those  wild  and  romantic  scenes  which 
lie  between  the  sunny  Winandermere  and  the  dark  and 
sullen  Wastwater,  their  conversation  fell  on  topics  more 
personal  than  it  had  hitherto  done,  for  as  yet,  if  they  felt 
love,  they  had  never  spoken  of  it. 

The  narrowness  of  the  i)ath  allowed  only  two  to  ride 
abreast,  and  the  two  to  whom  I  confine  my  description 
were  the  last  of  the  little  band. 

"  How  I  wish  Arthur  were  here  !  "  said  Camilla ;  "  I 
am  sure  you  would  like  him. " 

"Are  you?  He  lives  much  in  the  world, —  the  world 
of  which  I  know  nothing.  Are  we  then  characters  to 
suit  each  other  ?  " 

"  He  is  the  kindest,  the  best  of  human  beings !  "  said 
Camilla,  rather  evasively,  but  with  more  warmth  than 
usually  dwelt  in  her  soft  and  low  voice. 


NICxIIT    AND    MORNING.  75 

"  Is  lie  so  kind  1  "  returned  Spencer,  musingly.  "  Well 
it  may  be  so.  And  who  would  not  be  kind  to  you  1  Ah ! 
it  is  a  beautiful  connection  that  of  brother  and  sister,  — ■ 
I  never  had  a  sister !  " 

"  Have  you  then  a  brother  1  "  asked  Camilla,  in  some 
surprise,  and  turning  her  ingenuous  eyes  full  on  her 
companion. 

Spencer's  color  rose,  — rose  to  his  temples;  his  voice 
trembled  as  he  answered,  "No;  no  brother!"  then, 
speaking  in  a  rapid  and  hurried  tone,  he  continued,  "  My 
life  has  been  a  strange  and  lonely  one.  I  am  an  orphan. 
I  have  mixed  with  few  of  my  own  age :  my  boyhood  and 
youth  have  been  spent  in  these  scenes;  my  education 
such  as  nature  and  books  could  bestow,  with  scarcely  any 
guide  or  tutor  save  my  guardian,  —  the  dear  old  man ! 
Thus  the  world,  the  stir  of  cities,  ambition,  enterprise, 
■ —  all  seem  to  me  as  things  belonging  to  a  distant  land  to 
which  I  shall  never  wander.  Yet  I  have  had  my  dreams. 
Miss  Beaufort ;  dreams  of  which  these  solitudes  still  form 
a  part,  — but  solitudes  not  unshared.  And  lately  I  have 
thought  that  those  dreams  might  be  prophetic.  And 
you,  —  do  i/ou  love  the  world  1  " 

"  I,  like  you,  have  scarcely  tried  it, "  said  Camilla, 
with  a  sweet  laugh.  "  But  I  love  the  country  better, 
—  oh !  far  better  than  what  little  I  have  seen  of  towns. 
But  for  you, "  she  continued,  with  a  charming  hesitation, 
"  a  man  is  so  different  from  us,  —  for  you  to  shrink  from 
the  world :  you,  so  young  and  with  talents  too,  —  nay, 
it  is  true!  —  it  seems  to  me  strange." 

"  It  may  be  so,  but  I  cannot  tell  you  what  feelings  of 
dread,  —  what  vague  forebodings  of  terror  seize  me  if  I 
carry  my  thoughts  beyond  these  retreats.  Perhaps,  my 
good  guardian  —  " 

"  Your  uncle  1  "  interrupted  Camilla. 


76  KIGIIT   AND   MORNING. 

"  Ay,  my  uncle,  —  may  have  contributed  to  engender 
feelings,  as  you  say,  strange  at  my  age ;  but  still  — " 

"Still  Avbat?" 

"  My  earlier  childhood, "  continued  Spencer,  breath- 
ing hard  and  turning  pale,  "  was  not  spent  in  the  happy 
home  I  have  now ;  it  was  passed  in  a  premature  ordeal 
of  sulfering  and  pain.  Its  recollections  have  left  a  dark 
shadow  on  my  mind,  and  under  that  shadow  lies  every 
tliought  that  points  towards  the  troublous  and  laboring 
career  of  other  men.  But, "  he  resumed,  after  a  pause, 
and  in  a  deep,  earnest,  almost  solemn  voice, — -"but, 
after  all,  is  this  cowardice  or  wisdom  1  I  find  no  monot- 
ony, no  tedium  in  this  quiet  life.  Is  there  not  a  certain 
morality,  a  certain  religion  in  the  spirit  of  a  secluded 
and  coimtry  existence  1  In  it  we  do  not  know  the  evil 
passions  which  ambition  and  strife  are  said  to  arouse.  I 
never  feel  jealous  or  envious  of  other  men;  I  never  know 
what  it  is  to  hate ;  my  boat,  my  horse,  our  garden,  music, 
books,  and,  if  I  may  dare  to  say  so,  the  solemn  gladness 
that  comes  from  the  hopes  of  another  life,  —  these  fill  up 
every  hour  with  thouglits  and  pursuits,  peaceful,  happy, 
and  without  a  cloud,  till  of  late,  when  —  when  — " 

"  When  what?  "  said  Camilla,  innocently. 

"  When  I  have  longed,  but  did  not  dare  to  ask 
another,   if  to  share  such  a  lot  would  content  her!  " 

He  bent,  as  he  spoke,  his  soft,  blue  eyes  full  upon  the 
blushing  face  of  her  whom  he  addressed,  and  Camilla 
lialf  smiled  and  half  sighed,  — 

"  Our  companions  are  far  before  us,"  said  she,  turning 
away  her  face;  "  and  see,  the  road  is  now  smooth."  She 
quickened  her  horse's  pace  as  she  said  this ;  and  Spen- 
cer, too  new  to  women  to  interpret  favorably  her  evasion 
of  his  words  and  looks,  fell  into  a  profound  silence  which 
lasted  during  the  rest  of  their  excursion. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  77 

As  towards  the  decline  of  day  he  bent  his  solitary- 
way  liome,  emotions  and  passions  to  which  his  life  had 
hitherto  been  a  stranger,  and  which,  alas!  he  had  vainly 
imagined  a  life  so  tranquil  would  everlastingly  restrain, 
swelled  his  heart. 

"  She  does  not  love  me, "  he  muttered,  half  aloud ; 
"  she  will  leave  me,  and  what  then  will  all  the  beauty 
of  the  landscape  seem  in  my  eyes?  And  how  dare  I 
look  up  to  her?  Even  if  her  cold,  vain  mother,  her 
father,  the  man,  they  say,  of  forms  and  scruples,  were 
to  consent,  would  they  not  question  closely  of  my  true 
birth  and  origin  ?  And  if  the  one  blot  were  overlooked, 
is  there  no  other  ?  His  early  habits  and  vices,  his  !  — 
a  brother's  —  his  unknown  career  terminating  at  any 
day,  perhaps,  in  shame,  in  crime,  in  exposure,  in  the 
gibbet,  —  will  they  overlook  this  ?  "  As  he  spoke,  he 
groaned  aloud,  and,  as  if  impatient  to  escape  himself, 
spurred  on  his  horse  and  rested  not  till  he  reached  the 
belt  of  trim  and  sober  evergreens  that  surrounded  his 
hitherto  happy  home. 

Leaving  his  horse  to  find  its  way  to  the  stables,  the 
young  man  passed  through  rooms  which  he  found 
deserted,  to  the  lawn  on  the  other  side,  which  sloped 
to  the  smooth  waters  of  the  lake. 

Here,  seated  under  the  one  large  tree  that  formed  the 
pride  of  the  lawn,  over  which  it  cast  its  shadow  broad  and 
far,  he  perceived  his  guardian  poring  idly  over  an  oft-read 
book,  one  of  those  books  of  which  literary  dreamers  are  apt  to 
grow  fanatically  fond,  —  books  by  the  old  English  writers, 
full  of  phrases  and  conceits  half  quaint  and  half  sublime, 
interspersed  with  praises  of  the  country,  imbued  with  a 
poetical  rather  than  ortliodox  religion,  and  adorned  with 
a  strange  mixture  of  monastic  learning  and  aphorisms 
collected  from  the  weary  experience  of  actual  life. 


78  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

To  the  left,  by  a  greenhouse,  built  between  the  house 
and  the  lake,  might  be  seen  the  white  dress  and  lean 
form  of  the  eldest  spinster  sister,  to  whom  the  care  of 
the  flowers  —  for  she  had  been  early  crossed  in  love  — 
was  consigned;  at  a  little  distance  from  her,  the  other 
two  were  seated  at  work,  and  conversing  in  whispers, 
not  to  disturb  their  studious  brother,  no  doubt  upon  the 
nepheAv,  who  was  their  all  in  all.  It  was  the  calmest 
hour  of  eve,  and  the  quiet  of  the  several  forms,  their 
simple  and  harmless  occupations,  —  if  occupations  tliey 
might  be  called,  —  the  breathless  foliage,  rich  in  the 
depth  of  summer;  behind,  the  old-fashioned  house,  unpre- 
tending, not  mean,  its  open  doors  and  windows  giving 
glimpses  of  the  comfortable  repose  within;  before,  the 
lake,  without  a  ripple,  and  catching  the  gleam  of  the 
sunset  clouds,  — all  made  a  picture  of  that  complete 
tranquillity  and  stillness  which  sometimes  soothes  and 
sometimes  saddens  us,  according  as  we  are  in  the  temper 

to  woo  CONTENT. 

The  young  man  glided  to  his  guardian  and  touched  his 
shoulder,  "  Sir,  may  I  speak  to  you  1  Hush !  thei/  need 
not  see  us  now !  it  is  only  you  I  would  speak  with. " 

The  elder  Spencer  rose,  and,  with  his  book  still  in 
his  hand,  moved  side  by  side  with  his  nephew  under 
the  shadow  of  the  tree  and  towards  a  walk  to  the 
right,  which  led  for  a  short  distance  along  the  margin 
of  the  lake,  backed  by  the  interlaced  boughs  of  a  thick 
copse. 

"Sir!"  said  the  young  man,  speaking  first  and  with 
a  visible  effort,  "  your  cautions  have  been  in  vain !  I 
love  this  girl, —  this  daughter  of  the  haughty  Beauforts! 
I  love  her;  better  than  life  I  love  her!  " 

"  My  poor  boy, "  said  the  uncle,  tenderly,  and  with 
a  simple  fondness  passing  his  arm    over   the   speaker's 


NIGHT  AND   l^IORNING.  79 

shoulder,  "  do  not  think  I  can  chide  you, —  I  know  what 
it  is  to  love  in  vain !  " 

"  In  vain !  —  but  why  in  vain  ? "  exclaimed  the 
younger  Spencer  with  a  vehemence  that  had  in  it  some- 
thing of  both  agony  and  fierceness.  "  She  may  love  me, 
—  she  shall  love  me !  "  and  almost  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  the  proud  consciousness  of  his  rare  gifts  of 
person  spoke  in  his  kindled  eye  and  dilated  stature. 
"  Do  they  not  say  that  nature  has  been  favorable  to  me  ? 
What  rival  haA^e  I  here?  Is  she  not  young?  And," 
sinking  his  voice  till  it  almost  breathed  like  music,  "  is 
not  love  contagious  1  " 

"  I  do  not  doubt  that  she  may  love  you, —  who  would 
not  1  —  but  —  but  —  the  parents,  will  they  ever  consent  1  " 

"  Nay !  "  answered  the  lover,  as  with  that  inconsis- 
tency common  to  passion  he  now  argued  stubbornly 
against  those  fears  in  another  to  Avhich  he  had  just 
before  yielded  in  himself,  —  "  nay !  —  after  all,  am  I  not 
of  their  own  blood?  Do  I  not  come  from  the  elder 
branch  ?  Was  I  not  reared  in  equal  luxury  and  with 
higher  hopes  ?  And  my  mother,  —  my  poor  mother,  — 
did  she  not  to  the  last  maintain  our  birthright,  her  own 
honor?  Has  not  accident  or  law  unjustly  stripped  us  of 
our  true  station  ?  Is  it  not  for  us  to  forgive  spolia- 
tion? "  Am  I  not,  in  fact,  the  person  who  descends,  who 
forgets  the  wrongs  of  the  dead,  the  heritage  of  the 
living?  " 

The  young  man  had  never  yet  assumed  this  tone, — 
had  never  yet  shown  that  he  looked  back  to  the  history 
connected  with  his  birth  with  the  feelings  of  resentment 
and  the  remembrance  of  wrong.  It  was  a  tone  contrary 
to  his  habitual  calm  and  contentment ;  it  struck  forcibly 
on  his  listener,  and  the  elder  Spencer  was  silent  for  some 
moments  before  he  replied,  "  If  you  feel  tlius  (and  it  is 


80  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

natural),  you  have  yet  stronger  reason  to  struggle  against 
this  unhappy  affection." 

"  I  have  been  conscious  of  that,  sir, "  replied  the  young 
man,  mournfully.  "  I  have  struggled!  —  and  I  say  again, 
it  is  in  vain !  I  turn,  then,  to  face  the  obstacles !  My 
birth, —  let  us  suppose  that  the  Beauforts  overlook  it. 
Did  you  not  tell  me  that  Mr.  Beaufort  wrote  to  inform 
you  of  the  abrupt  and  intemperate  visit  of  my  brother, 
—  of  his  determination  never  to  forgive  it  ?  I  think  I 
remember  something  of  this  years  ago. " 

"  It  is  true !  "  said  the  giiardian ;  "  and  the  conduct  of 
that  brother  is,  in  fact,  the  true  cause  why  you  never 
ought  to  reassume  your  proper  name !  —  never  to  divulge 
it,  even  to  the  family  with  whom  you  connect  yourself 
by  marriage;  but,  above  all,  to  the  Beauforts,  who,  for 
that  cause,  if  that  cause  alone,  would  reject  your  suit." 

The  young  man  groaned,  placed  one  hand  before  his 
eyes,  and  with  the  other  grasped  his  guardian's  arm  con- 
vulsively, as  if  to  check  him  from  proceeding  further ;  but 
the  good  man,  not  divining  his  meaning,  and  absorbed 
in  his  subject,  went  on,  irritating  the  wound  he  had 
touched. 

"Reflect! — your  brother  in  boyhood,  in  the  dying 
hours  of  his  mother,  scarcely  saved  from  the  crime  of 
a  thief,  flying  from  a  friendly  pursuit  with  a  notorious 
reprobate;  afterwards  implicated  in  some  discreditable 
transaction  about  a  horse,  rejecting  all,  every  hand 
that  could  save  him,  clinging  by  choice  to  the  lowest 
companions  and  the  meanest  habits;  disappearing  from 
the  country,  and  last  seen,  ten  years  ago,  — the  beard 
not  yet  on  his  chin,  — with  that  same  reprobate  of  whom 
I  have  spoken,  in  Paris,  a  day  or  so  only  before  hia 
companion,  a  coiner  —  a  murderer  —  fell  by  the  hands  of 
the  police!     You  remember  that  when,  in  your  seven- 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  81 

teontli  year,  you  evinced  some  desire  to  retake  your 
name, — nay,  even  to  refind  that  guilty  brother, —  I 
placed  before  you,  as  a  sad  and  terrible  duty,  the 
newspaper  that  contained  the  particulars  of  the  death 
and  the  former  adventures  of  that  wretched  accomplice, 
the  notorious  Gawtrey.  And,  telling  you  that  ]\Ir. 
Beaufort  had  long  since  written  to  inform  me  that  his 
own  son  and  Lord  Lilburne  had  seen  your  brother  in 
company  with  the  miscreant  just  before  his  fate, —  nay, 
was,  in  all  probability,  the  very  youth  described  in  the 
account,  as  found  in  his  chamber  and  escaping  the  pur- 
suit, I  asked  you  if  you  Avould  now  venture  to  leave 
that  disguise  —  that  shelter  under  which  you  would  for- 
ever be  safe  from  the  opprobrium  of  the  world  —  from 
the  shame  that,  sooner  or  later,  your  brother  must 
bring  upon  your  name !  " 

"  It  is  true,  —  it  is  true !  "  said  the  pretended  nephew, 
in  a  tone  of  great  anguish,  and  with  trembling  lips  which 
the  blood  had  forsaken.  "  Horrible  to  look  either  to  his 
past  or  his  future!  But  —  but  —  we  have  heard  of  him 
no  more ;  no  one  ever  has  learned  his  fate.  Perhaps  — 
perhaps, "  and  he  seemed  to  breathe  more  freely ,  "  mi/ 
brother  is  no  more  !  " 

And  poor  Catherine !  and  poor  Philip !  had  it  come  to 
this?  Did  the  one  brother  feel  a  sentiment  of  release, 
of  joy,  in  conjecturing  the  death  —  perhaps  the  death  of 
violence  and  shame  —  of  his  fellow  orphan  ?  Mr.  Spencer 
shook  his  head  doubtingly,  but  made  no  reply.  The 
young  man  sighed  heavily  and  strode  on  for  several  paces 
in  advance  of  his  protector,  then,  turning  back,  he  laid 
his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Sir, "  he  said,  in  a  low  voice  and  with  downcast  eyes, 
"  you  are  right :  this  disguise  —  this  false  name  —  must 
be  forever  borne!     Why  need  the  Beauforts,  then,  ever 

VOL.  II.  —  6 


82  NIGHT    AND   MORNING. 

know  who  and  what  I  am  ?     Why  not  as  your  nephew, 

—  nephew  to  one  so  respected  and  exemplary,  —  proffer 
my  claims  and  plead  my  cause  1  " 

"  They  are  proud  —  so  it  is  said  —  and  worldly ;  you 
know  my  family  was  in  trade  —  still  —  hut  —  "  and  here 
]\[r.  Spencer  hroke  off  from  a  tone  of  doubt  into  that  of 
despondency,  — "  but,  recollect,  though  Mrs.  Beaufort 
may  not  remember  the  circumstance,  both  her  husband 
and  her  son  have  seen  me, — have  known  my  name. 
Will  they  not  suspect,  when  once  introduced  to  you,  the 
stratagem  that  has  been  adopted  ?  Nay,  has  it  not  been 
from  that  very  fear  that  you  have  wished  me  to  shun  the 
acquaintance  of  the  family?  Both  Mr.  Beaufort  and 
Arthur  saw  you  in  childhood,  and  their  suspicion  once 
aroused,  they  may  recognize  you  at  once;  your  features 
are  developed,  but  not  altogether  changed.    Come,  come ! 

—  my  adopted,  my  dear  son,  shake  off  this  fantasy  be- 
times: let  us  change  the  scene;  I  will  travel  with  you; 
read  with  you  ;  go  where  —  " 

"  Sir,  sir !  "  exclaimed  the  lover,  smiting  his  breast, 
"you  are  ever  kind,  compassionate,  generous;  but  do  not 

—  do  not  rob  me  of  hope.  I  have  never  —  thanks  to 
you  —  felt,  save  in  a  momentary  dejection,  the  curse  of 
my  birth.  Now  how  heavily  it  falls!  Where  shall  I 
look  for  comfort  1  " 

As  he  spoke,  the  sound  of  a  bell  broke  over  the  trans- 
lucent air  and  the  slumbering  lake :  it  was  the  bell  that 
every  eve  and  morn  summoned  that  innocent  and  pious 
family  to  prayer.  The  old  man's  face  changed  as  he  heard 
it,  —  changed  from  its  customary  indolent,  absent,  listless 
aspect,  into  an  expression  of  dignity,  even  of  animation. 

"  Hark !  "  he  said,  pointing  upwards ;  "  hark !  it  chides 
you.  Who  shall  say  '  Where  shall  I  look  for  comfort, ' 
while  God  is  in  the  heavens  1  " 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  83 

Tlie  young  man,  habituated  to  the  faith  and  obser- 
vance of  religion,  till  they  had  pervaded  his  whole 
nature,  bowed  his  head  in  rebuke ;  a  few  tears  stole  from 
his  eyes. 

"You  are  right,  father"  he  said,  tenderly,  giving 
emphasis  to  the  deserved  and  endearing  name.  "  I  am 
comforted  already !  " 

So,  side  by  side,  silently  and  noiselessly,  the  young 
and  the  old  man  glided  back  to  the  house.  When  they 
gained  the  quiet  room  in  which  the  family  usually 
assembled,  the  sisters  and  servants  were  already  gathered 
round  the  table.  They  knelt  as  the  loiterers  entered. 
It  was  the  wonted  duty  of  the  younger  Spencer  to  read 
the  prayers ;  and,  as  he  now  did  so,  his  graceful  counte- 
nance more  hushed,  his  sweet  voice  more  earnest  than 
usual  in  its  accents :  who  that  heard  could  have  deemed 
the  heart  within  convulsed  by  such  stormy  passions  ?  Or 
was  it  not  in  that  hour  —  that  solemn  commune  — 
soothed  from  its  woe  %  0  beneficent  Creator !  thou  who 
inspirest  all  the  tribes  of  earth  with  the  desire  to  %>rayy 
hast  thou  not,  in  that  divinest  instinct,  bestowed  on  us 
the  happiest  of  thy  gifts  ? 


84  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Bertram.  —  I  mean  the  business  is  not  ended,  as  fearing  to  hear  of 
it  hereafter. 

1st  Soldier.  — Do  you  know  this  Captain  Dumain  ? 

All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

One  evening,  some  weeks  after  the  date  of  the  last  chap- 
ter, Mr,  Robert  Beaufort  sat  alone  in  his  house  in 
Berkeley  Square.  He  had  arrived  that  morning  from 
Beaufort  Court,  on  his  way  to  Winandermere,  to  which 
he  was  summoned  by  a  letter  from  his  wife. 

That  year  was  an  agitated  and  eventful  epoch  in  Eng- 
land ;  and  Mr.  Beaufort  had  recently  gone  through  the 
bustle  of  an  election,  — not,  indeed,  contested;  for  his 
popularity  and  his  property  defied  all  rivalry  in  his 
own  county. 

The  rich  man  had  just  dined,  and  was  seated  in  lazy 
enjoyment  by  the  side  of  the  fire,  which  he  had  lighted, 
less  for  the  warmth  —  though  it  was  then  September  — 
than  for  the  companionship,  engaged  in  finishing  his 
madeira,  and  with  half-closed  eyes  munching  his 
devilled  biscuits. 

"  I  am  sure,"  he  soliloquized  while  thus  employed, 
"  I  don't  know  exactly  what  to  do,  —  my  wife  ought  to 
decide  matters  wliere  the  r/irl  is  concerned;  a  son  is 
another  affair,  —  that 's  the  use  of  a  wife.     Humph!  " 

"  Sir,"  said  a  fat  servant,  opening  the  door,  "  a  gentle- 
man wishes  to  see  you  upon  very  particular  business." 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  85 

'■  Business  at  this  liour!  Tell  him  to  go  to  Mr. 
Blackwell." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Stay !  perhaps  he  is  a  constituent,  Simmons.  Ask 
him  if  he  belongs  to  the  county." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  A  great  estate  is  a  great  plague,"  muttered  Mr.  Beau- 
fort, "  so  is  a  great  constituency.  It  is  pleasanter,  after 
all,  to  be  in  the  House  of  Lords.  I  suppose  I  could  if  I 
wished  ;  but  then  one  must  rat,  —  that 's  a  bore.  I  will 
consult  Lilburne.     Humph !  "     The  servant  re-appeared. 

"  Sir,  he  says  he  does  belong  to  the  county." 

"  Show  him  in !     What  sort  of  a  person  ?  " 

"A  sort  of  gentleman,  sir;  that  is,"  continued  the 
butler,  mindful  of  five  shillings  just  slipped  within  his 
palm  by  the  stranger,  "  quite  the  gentleman." 

"  More  wine,  tlien,  —  stir  up  the  fire." 

In  a  few  moments  the  visitor  was  ushered  into  the 
apartment.  He  was  a  man  between  fifty  and  sixty,  but 
still  aiming  at  the  appearance  of  youth.  His  dress 
evinced  military  pretensions,  consisting  of  a  blue  coat, 
buttoned  up  to  the  chin,  a  black  stock,  loose  trousers 
of  the  fashion  called  cossacks,  and  brass  spurs.  He 
wore  a  wig,  of  great  luxuriance  in  curl  and  rich  auburn 
in  hue,  with  large  whiskers  of  the  same  color,  slightly 
tinged  with  gray  at  the  roots.  By  the  imperfect  light 
of  the  room  it  was  not  perceptible  that  the  clothes  were 
somewhat  threadbare,  and  that  the  boots,  cracked  at  the 
side,  admitted  glimpses  of  no  very  white  hosiery 
within.  Mr.  Beaufort,  reluctantly  rising  from  his  re- 
pose and  gladly  sinking  back  to  it,  motioned  to  a  chair, 
and  put  on  a  doleful  and  doubtful  semi-smile  of  wel- 
come. The  servant  placed  the  wine  and  glasses  before 
the  stranger;  the  host  and  visitor  were  alone. 


86  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"So,  sir,"  said   ^Ir.   Beaufort,    languidly,  "you    are 

from  shire;  I   suppose   about  the    canal,  —  may  I 

offer  you  a  glass  of  wine  1  " 

"  ]\Iost  hauppy ,  sir,  —  your  health !  "  and  the  stranger, 
with  evident  satisfaction,  tossed  off  a  bumper  to  so  com- 
plimentary a  toast. 

"  About  the  canal  ?  "   repeated  ^Nlr.  Beaufort. 

"  Xo,  sir,  no!  You  Parliament  gentlemen  must  haiive 
a  vaust  deal  of  trouble  on  your  haunds,  —  very  foine 
property  I  understaund  yours  is,  sir.  Sir,  allow  me  to 
drink  the  health  of  your  good  lady!  " 

"  I  thank  you,  Mr.  — ,  Mr.  — ,  what  did  you  say  your 
name  was  ?  —  I  beg  you  a  thousand  pardons. " 

"  Xo  offaunce  in  the  least,  sir;  no  ceremony  with  me, 
—  this  is  perticler  good  madeira !  " 

"  May  I  ask  how  I  can  serve  you  1  "  said  Mr.  Beaufort, 
struggling  between  the  sense  of  annoyance  and  the  fear 
to  be  uncivil,  "  And  pray,  had  I  the  honor  of  your 
vote  in  the  last  election  1  " 

"  Xo,  sir,  no!  It 's  mauny  years  since  I  have  been  in 
your  part  of  the  world,  though  I  was  born  there." 

"  Then  I  don't  exactly  see  —  "  began  Mr.  Beaufort, 
and  stopped  with  dignity. 

"  Why  I  call  on  you,"  put  in  the  stranger,  tapping 
his  boots  with  his  cane ;  and  then  recognizing  the  rents, 
he  til  rust  both  feet  under  the  table. 

"I  don't  say  that;  but  at  this  hour  I  am  seldom  at 
leisure,  —  not  but  what  I  am  always  at  the  service  of  a 
constituent,  that  is,  a  voter/  Mr. — ,  I  beg  your 
pardon,  I  did  not  catch  your  name." 

"Sir,"  said  the  stranger,  helping  himself  to  a  third 
glass  of  wine;  "  here  's  a  health  to  your  young  folk! 
And  now  to  business."  Here  the  visitor,  drawing  his 
chair  nearer  to  his  host,  assuming  a  more  grave  aspect, 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  87 

and  dropping  something  of  his  stilted  pronimciation, 
continued,  "  You  had  a  brother?  " 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  with  a  very  changed 
tountenance. 

"  And  that  brother  had  a  wife !  " 

Had  a  cannon  gone  off  in  the  ear  of  Mr.  Robert  Beau- 
fort, it  could  not  have  shocked  or  stunned  him  more  than 
that  simple  word  with  which  his  companion  closed  his 
sentence.  He  fell  back  in  his  chair,  —  his  lips  apart, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  stranger.  He  sought  to  speak,  but 
his  tongue  clove  to  his  mouth. 

"  That  wife  had  two  sons,  born  in  wedlock!  " 

"  It  is  false!  "  cried  Mr.  Beaufort,  finding  a  voice  at 
length,  and  springing  to  his  feet.  "  And  who  are  you, 
sir  1  —  and  what  do  you  mean  by  —  " 

"  Hush!  "  said  the  stranger,  perfectly  unconcerned, 
and  regaining  the  dignity  of  his  haw-haw  enunciation: 
"  better  not  let  the  servants  hear  aunything.  For  my 
pawt,  I  think  servants  hauve  the  longest  pair  of  ears  of 
auny  persons,  not  excepting  jauckasses;  their  ears 
stretch  from  the  pauntry  to  the  parlor.  Hush,  sir! 
perticler  good  madeira,  this!  " 

"  Sir!  "  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  struggling  to  preserve,  or 
rather  recover,  his  temper,  "  your  conduct  is  exceedingly 
strange:  but  allow  me  to  say,  that  you  are  wholly  mis- 
informed. My  brother  never  did  marry;  and  if  you 
have  anything  to  say  on  behalf  of  those  young  men,  — 
his  natural  sons,  —  I  refer  you  to  my  solicitor,  Mr.  Black- 
well,  of  Lincoln's  Inn.      I  wish  you  a  good-evening  " 

"Sir!  the  same  to  you,  —  I  won't  trouble  you  auny 
farther;  it  was  only  out  of  koindness  I  called,  —  I  am 
not  used  to  be  treated  so.  Sir,  I  am  in  his  Maujesty's 
service;  sir,  you  will  foind  that  the  witness  of  the  mar- 
riage is  forthcoming;  you  will  think  of  me  then,  and, 


88  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

perhaps,  be  sorry.  But  I  've  done,  —  '  Your  most  obe- 
dient humble,  sir!  '  "  And  tlie  stranger,  with  a  flourish 
of  his  hand,  turned  to  the  door. 

At  the  sight  of  this  determination  on  the  part  of  his 
strange  guest,  a  coM,  uneasj',  vague  presentiment  seized 
Mr.  Beaufort.  There,  not  flashed,  but  rather  froze, 
across  him  the  recollection  of  his  brother's  emphatic  but 
disbelieved  assurances,  of  Catherine's  obstinate  assertion 
of  her  son's  alleged  rights,  — ■  rights  which  her  lawsuit, 
undertaken  on  her  own  behalf,  had  not  compromised ;  a 
fresh  lawsuit  might  be  instituted  by  the  son,  and  the 
evidence  Avhich  had  been  wanting  in  the  former  suit 
might  be  found  at  last.  With  this  remembrance  and 
these  reflections  came  a  horrible  train  of  shadowy  fears: 
witnesses,  verdict,  surrender,  spoliation,  arrears,  ruin! 

The  man,  who  had  gained  the  door,  turned  back  and 
looked  at  him  with  a  complacent,  half -triumphant  leer 
upon  his  impudent,  reckless  face. 

"  Sir,"  then  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  mildly,  "  I  repeat 
that  yo\a  had  better  see  Mr.  Blackwell." 

The  tempter  saw  his  triumph.  "  I  have  a  secret  to 
communicate,  which  it  is  best  for  you  to  keep  snug. 
How  mauny  people  do  you  wish  me  to  see  about  it? 
Come,  sir,  there  is  no  need  of  a  lawyer;  or,  if  you  think 
so,  tell  him  yourself.     Now  or  never,  Mr.  Beaufort. " 

"  I  can  have  no  objection  to  hear  anything  you  have 
to  say,  sir,"  said  the  rich  man,  yet  more  mildly  than 
before,  and  then  added,  with  a  forced  smile,  "  though 
my  rights  are  already  too  confirmed  to  admit  of  a 
doubt." 

Without  heeding  the  last  assertion,  the  stranger  coolly 
walked  back,  resumed  his  seat,  and,  placing  both  arms  on 
the  table,  and  looking  Mr.  Beaufort  full  in  the  face,  thus 
proceeded, — 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  89 

"  Sir,  of  the  marriage  between  Philip  Beaufort  and 
Catherine  Morton  there  Avere  two  witnesses:  the  one  is 
dead,  the  other  Avent  abroad,  —  the  last  is  alive  still!  " 

"If  so,"  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  who,  not  naturally  defi- 
cient in  cunning  and  sense,  felt  every  faculty  now 
prodigiously  sharpened,  and  was  resolved  to  know  the 
precise  grounds  for  alarm,  —  "  if  so,  why  did  not  the  man 
—  it  was  a  servant,  sir,  a  man-servant,  whom  Mrs.  Morton 
pretended  to  rely  on  —  appear  on  the  trial  1  " 

"Because,  I  say,  he  was  abroad,  and  could  not  be 
found;  or,  the  search  after  him  miscaurried,  from  clumsy 
management  and  a  lack  of  the  rhino." 

"Hum!"  said  Mr.  Beaufort;  "one  witness  —  one 
■witness,  observe,  there  is  only  one!  —  does  not  alarm  me 
much.  It  is  not  what  a  man  deposes,  it  is  what  a  jury 
believe,  sir!  Moreover,  what  has  become  of  the  young 
men  ?  They  have  never  been  heard  of  for  years.  They 
are  probably  dead;  if  so,  I  am  heir-at-law!  " 

"  I  know  where  one  of  them  is  to  be  found ,  at  all 
events. " 

"The  elder, —Philip?"  asked  Mr.  Beaufort,  anx- 
iously, and  with  a  fearfiil  remembrance  of  the  energetic 
and  vehement  character  prematurely  exhibited  by  his 
nephew. 

"  Pawdon  me!     I  need  not  aunswer  that  question." 

"  Sir!  a  lawsuit  of  this  nature,  against  one  in  posses- 
sion, is  very  doubtful,  and,"  added  the  rich  man,  draw- 
ing himself  up,  — "  and,  perhaps,  very  expensive!  " 

"  The  young  man  I  speak  of  does  not  want  friends, 
who  will  not  grudge  the  money." 

"  Sir!  "  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  rising  and  placing  his  back 
to  the  fire,  —  "  sir!  what  is  your  object  in  this  commu- 
nication? Do  you  come,  on  the  part  of  the  young  man, 
to  propose  a  compromise?     If  so,  be  plain!  " 


90  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  I  come  on  my  own  pawt.  It  rests  with  you  to  say 
if  the  young  men  shall  never  know  it!  " 

"  And  what  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  Five  hundred  a  year  as  long  as  the  secret  is  kept." 

"  And  how  can  you  prove  that  there  is  a  secret,  after 
all  ?  " 

"  By  producing  the  witness,  if  you  wish." 

"  Will  he  go  halves  in  the  £500  a  year?  "  asked  ^Iv. 
Beaufort,  artfully. 

"  That  is  moy  affair,  sir,"  replied  the  stranger. 

"  What  you  say,"  resumed  ]Mr.  Beaufort,  "  is  so  extra- 
ordinary,—  so  unexpected,  and  still,  to  me,  seems  so 
improbable,  that  I  must  have  time  to  consider.  If  you 
will  call  on  me  in  a  week,  and  produce  your  facts,  I  will 
give  you  my  answer.  I  am  not  the  man,  sir,  to  wish  to 
keep  any  one  out  of  his  true  rights,  hut  I  will  not  yield, 
on  the  other  hand,  to  imposture." 

"  If  you  don't  want  to  keep  them  out  of  their  rights, 
I  'd  best  go  and  tell  my  young  gentlemen,"  said  tlie 
stranger,  with  cool  impudence. 

"  I  tell  you  I  must  have  time,"  repeated  Beaufort, 
disconcerted.  "Besides,  I  have  not  myself  alone  to 
look  to,  sir,"  he  added,  with  dignified  emphasis,  —  "I 
am  a  father!  " 

"  This  day  week  I  will  call  on  you  again.  Good- 
evening,  Mr.  Beaufort!  "  And  the  man  stretched  out 
his  hand  with  an  air  of  amicable  condescension. 

The  respectable  Mr.  Beaufort  changed  color,  hesitated, 
and  finally  suffered  two  fingers  to  be  enticed  into  the 
grasp  of  the  visitor,  whom  he  ardently  wished  at  that 
bourn  whence  no  visitor  returns. 

The  stranger  smiled,  stalked  to  the  door,  laid  his 
finger  on  his  lip,  winked  knowingly,  and  vanisbed, 
leaving  Mr.  Beaufort  a  prey  to  such  feelings  of  uneasi- 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  91 

ness,  dread,  and  terror,  as  may  be  experienced  by  a  man 
whom,  on  some  inch  or  two  of  slippery  rock,  the  tides 
have  suddenly  surrounded. 

He  remained  perfectly  still  for  some  moments,  and 
then  glancing  round  the  dim  and  spacious  room,  his  eyes 
took  in  all  the  evidences  of  luxury  and  wealth  which 
it  betrayed.  Above  the  huge  sideboard,  that  on  festive 
days  groaned  beneath  the  hoarded  weight  of  the  silver 
heirlooms  of  the  Beauforts,  hung,  in  its  gilded  frame, 
a  large  picture  of  the  family  seat,  with  the  stately  por- 
ticos, the  noble  park,  the  groups  of  deer;  and  around 
the  wall ,  interspersed  here  and  there  with  ancestral  por- 
traits of  knight  and  dame,  long  since  gathered  to  their 
rest,  were  placed  masterpieces  of  the  Italian  and  Flemish 
art,  which  generation  after  generation  had  slowly  accu- 
mulated, till  the  Beaufort  Collection  had  become  the 
theme  of  connoisseurs  and  the  study  of  young  genius. 

The  still  room,  the  dumb  pictures,  even  the  heavy 
sideboard,  seemed  to  gain  voice,  and  speak  to  him  audi- 
bly. He  thrust  his  hand  into  the  folds  of  his  Avaist- 
coat,  and  griped  his  own  flesh  convulsively  ;  then  striding 
to  and  fro  the  apartment,  he  endeavored  to  re-collect  his 
thoughts. 

"I  dare  not  consult  Mrs.  Beaufort,"  he  muttered; 
"no,  no, — she  is  a  fool!  Besides,  she 's  not  in  the 
way.     No  time  to  lose,  —  I  will  go  to  Lilburne." 

Scarce  had  that  thought  crossed  him  than  he  has- 
tened to  put  it  into  execution.  He  rang  for  his  hat  and 
gloves,  and  sallied  out  on  foot  to  Lord  Lilburne 's  house 
in  Park  Lane,  —  the  distance  was  short,  and  impatience 
has  long  strides. 

He  knew  Lord  Lilburne  was  in  town,  for  that  person- 
age loved  London  for  its  own  sake ;  and  even  in  Septem- 
ber he  would  have  said  with  the  old  Duke  of  Queensbury, 


92  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

when  some,  one  observed  that  London  was  very  empty, 
"  Yes,  hut  it  is  fuller  than  the  country. " 

;Mr.  Beaufort  found  Lord  Lilburne  reclined  on  a  sofa, 
by  the  open  window  of  his  drawing-room,  beyond  which 
the  early  stars  shone  upon  the  glimmering  trees  and 
silver  turf  of  the  deserted  park.  Unlike  the  simple 
dessert  of  his  respectable  brother-in-law,  the  costliest 
fruits,  the  richest  wines  of  France,  graced  the  small 
table  placed  beside  his  sofa;  and  as  the  starch  man 
of  forms  and  method  entered  the  room  at  one  door,  a 
rustling  silk,  that  vanished  through  the  aperture  of 
another,  seemed  to  betray  tokens  of  a  tete-a-tete  probably 
more  agreeable  to  Lilburne  than  the  one  with  which 
only  our  narrative  is  concerned. 

It  would  have  been  a  curious  study  for  such  men  as 
love  to  gaze  upon  the  dark  and  wily  features  of  human 
character,  to  have  watched  the  contrast  between  the 
reciter  and  the  listener,  as  Beaufort,  with  much  circum- 
locution, much  affected  disdain,  and  real  anxiety,  nar- 
rated the  singular  and  ominous  conversation  between 
himself  and  his  visitor. 

The  servant,  in  introducing  Mr.  Beaufort,  had  added 
to  the  light  of  the  room;  and  the  candles  shone  full  on 
the  face  and  form  of  Mr.  Beaufort.  All  about  that  gen- 
tleman was  so  completely  in  unison  with  the  world's 
forms  and  seemings,  that  there  was  something  moral  in  the 
very  sight  of  him!  Since  his  accession  of  fortune, 
he  had  grown  less  pale  and  less  thin;  the  angles  in 
his  figure  were  filled  up.  On  his  brow  there  was  no 
trace  of  younger  passion.  No  able  vice  had  ever 
sharpened  the  expression,  no  exhausting  vice  ever 
deepened  the  lines.  He  was  the  beau  ideal  of  a  county 
member,  —  so  sleek,  so  staid,  so  business-like;  yet  so 
clean,  so  neat,  so  much  the  gentleman.     And  now  there 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  93 

was  a  kind  of  pathos  in  his  gray  hairs,  his  nervous 
smile,  his  agitated  hands,  his  quick  and  uneasy  transi- 
tion of  posture,  the  tremble  of  his  voice.  He  would 
have  appeared  to  those  who  saw,  but  lieard  not,  the 
good  man  in  trouble.  Cold,  motionless,  speechless, 
seemingly  apathetic,  but  in  truth  observant,  still  re- 
clined on  the  sofa,  his  head  thrown  back,  but  one  eye 
fixed  on  his  companion,  his  hands  clasped  before  him, 
Lord  Lilburne  listened;  and  in  that  repose,  about  his 
face,  even  about  his  person,  might  be  read  the  history 
of  how  different  a  life  and  character!  What  native 
acuteness  in  the  stealthy  eye!  What  hardened  resolve 
in  the  full  nostril  and  firm  lips!  What  sardonic  con- 
tempt for  all  things  in  the  intricate  lines  about  the 
mouth!  What  animal  enjoyment  of  all  things  so  de- 
spised in  that  delicate  nervous  system,  which,  combined 
with  original  vigor  of  constitution,  yet  betrayed  itself 
in  the  veins  on  the  hands  and  temples,  the  occasional 
quiver  of  the  upper  lip !  His  was  the  frame  above  all 
others  the  most  alive  to  pleasure:  deep-chested,  com- 
pact, sinewy,  but  thin  to  leanness,  — delicate  in  its  tex- 
ture and  extremities,  almost  to  effeminacy.  The  indif- 
ference of  the  posture,  the  very  habit  of  the  dress  —  not 
slovenly,  indeed,  but  easy,  loose,  careless  —  seemed  to 
speak  of  the  man's  manner  of  thought  and  life,  his  pro- 
found disdain  of  externals. 

Not  till  Beaufort  had  concluded  did  Lord  Lilburne 
change  his  position  or  open  his  lips;  and  then,  turning 
to  his  brother-in-law  his  calm  face,  he  said  dryly, — 

"  I  always  thought  your  brother  had  married  that 
woman ;  he  was  the  sort  of  man  to  do  it.  Besides,  why 
should  she  have  gone  to  law  without  a  vestige  of  proof, 
unless  she  was  convinced  of  her  rights  ?  Imposture 
never  proceeds  without  some  evidence.     Innocence,  like 


94  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

a  fool,  as   it   is,  fancies    it   has    only  to    speak    to   be 
believed.     But  there  is  no  cause  for  alarm." 

"  No  cause !  —  and  yet  you  think  there  was  a 
marriage." 

"  It  is  quite  clear,"  continued  Lilburne,  without 
heeding  this  interruption,  "  that  the  man,  whatever  his 
evidence,  has  not  got  sufficient  proofs.  If  he  had  he 
would  go  to  the  young  men  rather  than  you:  it  is 
evident  that  they  would  promise  infinitely  larger  rewards 
than  he  could  expect  from  yourself.  Men  are  always 
more  generous  with  what  they  expect  than  with  what 
they  have.  All  rogues  know  this.  'T  is  the  way  Jews 
and  usurers  thrive  upon  heirs  rather  than  possessors; 
't  is  the  philosophy  of  post-obits.  I  daresay  the  man 
has  found  out  the  real  witness  of  the  marriage,  but 
ascertained  also  that  the  testimony  of  that  witness 
would  not  suffice  to  dispossess  you.  He  might  be  dis- 
credited, —  rich  men  have  a  way  sometimes  of  discredit- 
ing poor  witnesses.  Mind,  he  says  nothing  of  the  lost 
copy  of  the  register,  Avhatever  may  be  the  value  of  that 
document,  which  I  am  not  lawyer  enough  to  say,  —  of 
any  letters  of  your  brother  avowing  the  marriage. 
Consider,  the  register  itself  is  destroyed, — -the  clergy- 
man dead.       Pooh!  make  yourself  easy." 

"  True, "  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  much  comforted ;  "  what 
a  memory  you  have!  " 

"  Naturally.  Your  wife  is  my  sister :  I  hate  poor 
relations,  and  I  was  therefore  much  interested  in  your 
accession  and  your  lawsuit.  No;  you  may  feel  at  rest 
on  this  matter,  so  far  as  a  successful  lawsuit  is  concerned. 
The  next  question  is,  will  you  have  a  lawsi;it  at  all, 
and  is  it  worth  Avhile  buying  this  fellow  ?  That  I  can't 
say  unless  I  see  him  myself. " 

"  I  wish  to  Heaven  you  would!  " 


NIGHT   AND   MOTINING.  95 

"  Very  ■willingly :  't  is  a  sort  of  thing  I  like :  I  'm  fond 
of  dealing  with  rogues, — it  amuses  me.  This  day  Aveek? 
I'll  beat  your  house, ^ your  proxy;  I  shall  do  better 
than  Blackwell.  And  since  you  say  j'^ou  are  wanted  at 
the  Lakes,  go  down,  and  leave  all  lo  me. " 

"  A  thousand  thanks.  I  can't  say  how  grateful  I  am. 
You  certainly  are  the  kindest  and  cleverest  person  ux  the 
world. " 

"  You  can't  think  worse  of  the  world's  cleverness  and 
kindness  than  I  do,"  was  Lilburne's  rather  ambiguous 
answer  to  the  compliment.  "  But  why  does  my  sister 
want  to  see  you  1  " 

"Oh,  I  forgot!  — here  is  her  letter.  I  was  going  to 
ask  your  advice  in  this  too." 

Lord  Lilburne  took  the  letter,  and  glanced  over  it 
with  the  rapid  eye  of  a  man  accustomed  to  seize  in  every- 
thing the  main  gist  and  pith. 

"  An  offer  to  my  pretty  niece  —  Mr.  Spencer  —  requires 
no  fortune  —  his  uncle  will   settle  all    his  own     (poor, 
silly  old  man).     All!     Why  that 's  only  £1000  a  year. 
You  don't  think  much  of  this,  eh  ?     How  my  sister  can 
even  ask  you  about  it  puzzles  me. " 

"  Why,  you  see,  Lilburne, "  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  rather 
embarrassed,  "  there  is  no  question  of  fortune,  —  nothmg 
to  go  out  of  the  family ;  and,  really,  Arthur  is  so  expen- 
sive; and,  if  she  were  to  marry  ivell,  I  could  not  give 
her  less  than  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  pounds. " 

"  Aha !  —  I  see ;  every  man  to  his  taste :  here  a 
daugliter,  —  there  a  dowry.  Yoti  are  devilish  fond  of 
mone}'-,  Beaufort.     Any  pleasure  in  avarice,  —  eh  ?  " 

Mr.  Beaufort  colored  very  much  at  the  remark  and  the 
question,  and,  forcing  a  smile,  said, — 

"  You  are  severe.  But  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to 
be  father  to  a  young  man. " 


96  NIGHT   AND   MOUNING. 

"  Then  a  great  many  young  women  have  told  me  sad 
fibs!  But  you  are  right  in  yoitr  sense  of  the  phrase. 
No,  I  never  had  an  heir  apparent,  thank  Heaven !  No 
children  imposed  upon  me  by  law,  —  natural  enemies,  to 
count  the  years  between  the  bells  that  ring  for  their 
majority,  and  those  that  will  toll  for  my  decease.  It  is 
enough  forme  that  I  have  a  brother  and  a  sister;  that 
my  brother's  son  Avill  inherit  my  estates, —  and  that,  in 
the  mean  time,  he  grudges  me  every  tick  in  that  clock. 
What  then?  If  he  had  been  my  uncle,  I  had  done  the 
same.  Meanwhile  I  see  as  little  of  him  as  good-breeding 
•will  permit.  On  the  face  of  a  rich  man's  heir  is  written 
the  rich  man's  memento  morif  But  revenons  a  nos 
moutons.  Yes,  if  you  give  your  daughter  no  fortune, 
your  death  will  be  so  much  the  more  profitable  to 
Arthur!  " 

"  Really,  you  take  such  a  very  odd  view  of  the  mat- 
ter, "  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  exceedingly  shocked.  "  But 
I  see  you  don't  like  the  marriage;  perhaps  you  are 
right." 

"  Indeed,  I  have  no  choice  in  the  matter ;  I  never 
interfere  between  father  and  children.  If  I  had  children 
myself,  I  will,  however,  tell  you,  for  your  comfort,  that 
they  might  marry  exactly  as  they  pleased,  —  I  would 
never  thwart  them.  I  should  be  too  happy  to  get  them 
out  of  my  way.  If  thoy  married  well,  one  would  have 
all  the  credit;  if  ill,  one  would  have  an  excuse  to  disown 
them.  As  I  said  before,  I  dislike  poor  relations. 
Though  if  Camilla  lives  at  the  Lakes  when  she  is  mar- 
ried, it  is  but  a  letter  now  and  then ;  and  that 's  your 
wife's  trouble,  not  yours.  But,  Spencer,  —  what  Spencer, 
what  family  1  Was  there  not  a  Mr.  Spencer  who  lived 
at  Winandermere,  who  —  " 

"  Who  went  with  us  in  search  of  these  boys, — to  be 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  97 

sure.     Very   likely  the  same,  —  nay,  he  must  be  so.     I 
thought  so  at  the  first." 

"  Go  down  to  the  Lakes  to-morrow.  You  may  hoar 
something  about  your  nephews ; "  at  that  word  Mr. 
Beaufort  winced.      " 'T  is  well  to  be  forearmed." 

"  Many  thanks  for  all  your  counsel, "  said  Beaufort, 
rising,  and  glad  to  escape ;  for  though  both  he  and  his 
wife  held  the  advice  of  Lord  Lilburne  in  the  highest 
reverence,  they  always  smarted  beneath  the  quiet  and 
careless  stings  which  accompanied  the  honey.  Lord 
Lilburne  was  singular  in  this,  — -  he  would  give  to  any 
one  who  asked  it,  but  especially  a  relation,  the  best 
advice  in  his  power ;  and  none  gave  better,  that  is,  more 
worldly  advice.  Thus,  without  the  least  benevolence, 
he  was  often  of  the  greatest  service;  but  he  could  not 
help  mixing  up  the  draught  with  as  much  aloes  and 
bitter-apple  as  possible.  His  intellect  delighted  in 
exhibiting  itself  even  gratuitously.  His  heart  equally 
delighted  in  that  only  cruelty  which  polished  life  leaves 
to  its  tyrants  towards  their  equals, —  thrusting  pins  into 
the  feelings,  and  breaking  self-love  upon  the  wheel. 
But  just  as  Mr.  Beaufort  had  drawn  on  his  gloves  and 
gained  the  doorway,  a  thought  seemed  to  strike  Lord 
Lilburne, — 

"  By  the  by, "  he  said,  "  you  understand  that  when  I 
promised  I  would  try  and  settle  the  matter  for  you,  I 
only  meant  that  I  would  learn  the  exact  causes  you  have 
for  alarm  on  the  one  hand,  or  for  a  compromise  with  this 
fellow  on  the  other.  If  the  last  be  advisable,  you  are 
aware  that  I  cannot  interfere.  I  might  get  into  a  scrape; 
and  Beaufort  Court  is  not  my  property. " 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  you." 

"  I  am  plain  enougli,  too.  If  there  is  money  to  be 
given,  it  is  given  in  order  to  defeat  what  is  called  justice, 

VOL.  11.  —  7 


98  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

—  to  keep  tliese  nephews  of  yours  out  of  their  inheri- 
tance. Now,  should  this  ever  come  to  light,  it  would 
have  an  ugly  appearance.  Tliey  who  risk  the  blame 
miist  be  the  persons  who  possess  the  estate." 

"  If  you  think  it  dishonorable  or  dishonest  —  "  said 
Beaufort,   irresolutely. 

"  I !  I  never  can  advise  as  to  the  feelings ;  I  can  only 
advise  as  to  the  policy.  If  you  don't  think  there  ever 
was  a  marriage,  it  may,  still,  be  honest  in  you  to  pre- 
vent the  bore  of  a  lawsuit." 

"  But  if  he  can  prove  to  me  that  they  were  married  ?  " 

"  Pooh !  "  said  Lillmrne,  raising  his  eyebrows  with  a 
slight  expression  of  contemptuous  impatience ;  "  it  rests 
on  yourself  whether  or  not  he  prove  it  to  your  satisfao 
tion !  For  my  part,  as  a  third  person,  I  am  persuaded 
the  marriage  did  take  place.  But  if  I  had  Beaufort 
Court,  my  convictions  would  be  all  the  other  way.  You 
understand.  I  am  too  happy  to  serve  you.  But  no  man 
can  be  expected  to  jeopardize  his"  character,  or  coquet 
with  the  law,  unless  it  be  for  his  own  individual  interest. 
Then,  of  course,  he  must  judge  for  himself.  Adieu!  I 
expect  some  friends  —  foreigners,  Carlists  —  to  whist. 
You  won't  join  them?" 

"  I  never  play,  you  know.  You  will  write  to  me  at 
Winandermere :  and,  at  all  events,  you  will  keep  off  the 
man  till  I  return  ?  " 

"Certainly." 

P»eaufort,  whom  tlie  latter  part  of  the  conversation 
had  comforted  far  less  than  the  former,  hesitated,  and 
turned  the  door-handle  three  or  four  times ;  but,  glancing 
towards  his  brother-in-law,  he  saw  in  that  cold  face  so 
little  sympathy  in  the  struggle  between  interest  and  con- 
science, that  he  judged  it  best  to  withdraw  at  once. 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  Lilburne  summoned  his  valet, 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  99 

who  had  lived  with  him  many  years,  and  who  was  his 
confidant  in  all  the  adventurous  gallantries  with  which 
he  still  enlivened  the  autumn  of  his  life. 

"  Dykeman, "  said  he,  "  you  have  let  out  that  lady  ?  " 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

"  I  am  not  at  home  if  she  calls  again.  She  is  stupid ; 
she  cannot  get  the  girl  to  come  to  her  again.  I  sliall 
trust  you  with  an  adventure,  Dykeman,  —  an  adventure 
that  will  remind  you  of  our  young  days,  man.  This 
charming  creature,  — I  tell  you  she  is  irresistible;  her 
very  oddities  bewitch  me.  You  must  —  well,  you  look 
uneasy.     What  would  you  say  ?  " 

"  My  lord,  I  have  found  out  more  about  her,  and  — 
and  —  " 

"Well,  well." 

The  valet  drew  near  and  whispered  something  in  his 
master's  ear. 

"  They  are  idiots  who  say  it,  then, "  answered  Lilburne. 

"  And, "  faltered  the  man,  with  the  shame  of  humanity 
on  his  face,  "  she  is  not  worthy  your  lordship's  notice,  — 
a  poor  —  " 

"  Yes,  I  know  she  is  poor ;  and,  for  tliat  reason,  there 
can  be  no  difficulty,  if  the  thing  is  properly  managed. 
You  never,  perhaps,  heard  of  a  certain  Philip,  king  of 
Macedon ;  but  I  will  tell  you  what  he  once  said,  as  well 
as  I  can  remember  it :  '  Lead  an  ass  with  a  pannier  of 
gold;  send  the  ass  through  the  gates  of  a  city,  and  all 
the  sentinels  will  run  away. '  Poor !  —  where  there  is 
love,  there  is  charity  also,  Dykeman.     Besides  —  " 

Here  Lilbume's  coimtenance  assumed  a  sudden  aspect 
of  dark  and  angry  passion,  —  he  broke  off  abruptly,  rose, 
and  paced  the  room,  muttering  to  himself.  Suddenly  he 
stopped,  and  put  his  hand  to  his  hip,  as  an  expression  of 
pain  again  altered  the  character  of  his  face. 


100  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  The  limb  pains  me  still !  Dykeman  —  T  was  scarce 
—  twenty-one  —  when  I  became  a  cripple  for  life. "  He 
paused,  drew  a  long  breath,  smiled,  rubbed  his  hands 
gently,  and  added,  "  Never  fear,  —  you  sliall  be  the, 
ass ;  and  thus  Philip  of  Macedon  begins  to  fill  the  pan- 
nier."  And  he  tossed  his  purse  into  the  hands  of  the 
valet,  whose  face  seemed  to  lose  its  anxious  embarrass- 
ment at  the  touch  of  the  gold.  Lilburne  glanced  at  him 
with  a  quiet  sneer :  "  Go  !  —  I  will  give  you  my  orders 
when  I  undress." 

"  Yes  !  "  he  repeated  to  himself,  "  the  limb  pains  me 
still.  But  he  died  !  —  shot  as  a  man  would  shoot  a  jay 
or  a  polecat !  I  have  the  newspaper  still  in  that  drawer. 
He  died  an  outcast,  a  felon,  a  murderer !  And  I  blasted 
his  name,  and  I  seduced  his  mistress,  and  I  —  am  John, 
Lord  Lilburne  !  " 

About  ten  o'clock  some  half-a-dozen  of  those  gay  lovers 
of  London  who,  like  Lilburne,  remain  faithful  to  its 
charms  when  more  vulgar  worshippers  desert  its  sun- 
burnt streets  —  mostly  single  men,  mostly  men  of  middle 
age  —  dropped  in.  And  soon  after  came  three  or  four 
high-born  foreigners,  who  had  followed  into  England  the 
exile  of  the  unfortunate  Charles  X.  Their  looks,  at 
once  proud  and  sad,  their  mustaches  curled  downAvard, 
their  beards  permitted  to  grow,  made  at  first  a  strong 
contrast  with  the  smooth  gay  Englishmen.  But  Lilburne, 
who  was  fond  of  French  society,  and  who,  when  he 
pleased,  could  be  courteous  and  agreeable,  soon  placed 
the  exiles  at  their  ease ;  and,  in  the  excitement  of  high 
play,  all  differences  of  mood  and  humor  speedily  vanished. 
Morning  was  in  the  skies  before  they  sat  down  to  supper. 

"  You  have  been  very  fortunate  to-night,  milord, " 
said  one  of  the  Frenchmen,  with  an  envious  tone  of 
congratulation. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  101 

"  But,  indeed, "  said  another,  who,  having  been  several 
times  his  host's  partner,  had  won  largely,  "  you  are  the 
finest  player,  milord,  I  ever  encountered. " 

"  Always  excepting  Monsieur  Deschapelles  and , " 

replied  Lilhurne,  indifferently.  And,  turning  the  con- 
versation, he  asked  one  of  the  guests  why  he  had  not 
introduced  him  to  a  French  officer  of  merit  and  distinc- 
tion, —  "  With  whom, "  said  Lord  Lilburne,  "  I  under- 
stand that  you  are  intimate,  and  of  whom  I  hear  your 
countrymen  very  often  speak." 

"  You  mean  De  Vaudemont.  Poor  f elloAV !  "  said  a 
middle-aged  Frenchman,  of  a  graver  appearance  than 
the  rest. 

"  But  why  '  poor  fellow,*  Monsieur  de  Liancourt?  " 

"  He  was  rising  so  high  before  the  revolution.  There 
was  not  a  braver  officer  in  the  army.  But  he  is  but  a 
soldier  of  fortune,  and  his  career  is  closed." 

"Till  the  Bourbons  return,"  said  another  Carlist, 
playing  with  his  mustache. 

"  You  will  really  honor  me  much  by  introducing  me 
to  him,"  said  Lord  Lilburne.  "  De  Vaudemont:  it  is  a 
good  name,  —  perhaps,  too,  he  plays  at  whist." 

"But,"  observed  one  of  the  Frenchmen,  "I  am  by  no 
means  sure  that  he  has  the  best  right  in  the  world  to  the 
name.      'T  is  a  strange  story." 

"  May  I  hear  it  1  "  asked  the  host. 

"Certainly.  It  is  briefly  this:  There  was  an  old 
Vicomte  de  Vaudemont  about  Paris;  of  good  birth, 
but  extremely  poor,  — a  maurais  sujet.  He  had  already 
had  two  wives,  and  run  through  their  fortunes.  Being 
old  and  ugly,  and  men  who  survive  two  wives  having 
a  bad  reputation  among  marriageable  ladies  at  Paris,  he 
found  it  difficult  to  get  a  third.  Despairing  of  the 
noblesse,  he  went  among  the  bourgeoisie  with  that  hope. 


102  NIGHT   AND   MOKNING. 

His  family  were  kept  in  perpetual  fear  of  a  ridiculous 
viesalliance.  Among  these  relations  was  Madame  de 
Merville,  whom  you  may  have  heard  of." 

"Madame  de  Merville!  Ah,  yes!  Handsome,  was 
she  not  ? " 

"  It  is  true.  Madame  de  ]Merville,  whose  failing  was 
pride,  was  known  more  than  once  to  have  bought  otf 
the  matrimonial  inclinations  of  the  amorous  vicomte. 
Suddenly  there  appeared  in  her  circles  a  very  handsome 
young  man.  He  was  presented  formally  to  her  friends 
as  the  son  of  the  Vicomte  de  Vaudemont  by  his  second 
marriage  with  an  English  lady,  brought  up  in  England, 
and  now  for  the  first  time  publicly  acknowledged.  Some 
scandal  was  circulated  —  " 

"  Sir,"  interrupted  Monsieur  de  Liancourt,  very 
gravely,  "  the  scandal  was  such  as  all  honorable  men 
must  stigmatize  and  despise:  it  was  only  to  be  traced 
to  some  lying  lackey,  —  a  scandal  that  the  young  man 
was  already  the  lover  of  a  woman  of  stainless  reputation 
the  very  first  day  that  he  entered  Paris !  I  answer  for 
the  falsity  of  that  report.  But  that  report  I  own  was 
one  that  decided  not  only  Madame  de  Merville,  who 
was  a  sensitive,  —  too  sensitive  a  person,  but  my  friend 
young  Vaudemont,  to  a  marriage,  from  the  pecuniary 
advantages  of  which  he  was  too  high-spirited  not  to 
shrink. " 

"Well,"  said  Lord  Lilburne,  "then  this  young  De 
Vaudemont  married  Madame  de  Merville  t  " 

"  No,"  said  Liancourt,  somewhat  sadly,  "  it  was  not  so 
decreed;  for  Vaudemont,  with  a  feeling  which  belongs 
to  a  gentleman,  and  which  I  honor,  while  deeply  and 
gratefully  attached  to  Madame  de  Merville,  desired  that 
he  might  first  win  for  himself  some  honorable  distinction 
before  he  claimed  a  hand  to  which  men  of  fortunes  so 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  103 

ftiuch  higher  had  aspired  in  vain.  I  am  not  ashamed," 
lie  added,  after  a  slight  pause,  "  to  say  that  I  had  been 
one  of  the  rejected  suitors,  and  that  I  still  revere  the 
memory  of  Eugenie  de  Merville.  The  young  man, 
therefore,  was  to  have  entered  my  regiment.  Before, 
however,  he  liad  joined  it,  and  while  yet  in  tlie  full 
flush  of  a  young  man's  love  for  a  woman  formed  to 
excite  the  strongest  attachment,  she  —  she  —  "  The 
Frenchman's  voice  trembled,  and  he  resumed  with 
affected  composure,  "  Madame  de  Merville,  who  had  the 
best  and  kindest  heart  that  ever  beat  in  a  human  breast, 
learned  one  day  that  there  was  a  poor  widow  in  the 
garret  of  the  hotel  she  inhabited  who  was  dangerously 
ill,  — without  medicine  and  without  food,  — having  lost 
her  only  friend  and  supporter  in  her  husband  some  time 
before.  In  the  impulse  of  the  moment  Madame  de  ]\[er- 
ville  herself  attended  this  widow,  caught  the  fever  that 
preyed  upon  her,  was  confined  to  her  bed  ten  days, 
and  died  as  she  had  lived,  in  serving  others  and  forget- 
ting self.  And  so  much,  sir,  for  the  scandal  you  spoke 
ofl'" 

"A  warning,"  observed  Lord  Lilburne,  "against 
trifling  with  one's  health  by  that  vanity  of  parading  a 
kind  heart  which  is  called  charity.  If  charity,  mon  cher, 
begins  at  home,  it  is  in  the  drawing-room,  not  the 
garret!  " 

The  Frenchman  looked  at  his  host  in  some  disdain, 
bit  his  lip,  and  was  silent. 

"  But  still,"  resumed  Lord  Lilburne,  — "  still  it  is  so 
probable  that  your  old  vicomte  had  a  son;  and  I  can 
so  perfectly  understand  why  he  did  not  wish  to  be 
embarrassed  with  him  as  long  as  he  could  help  it,  that  I 
do  tiot  understand  why  there  should  be  any  doubt  of  the 
younger  De  Vaudemont's  parentage. " 


104:  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

"  Because, "  said  the  Frenchman  who  had  first  com- 
menced the  narrative ,  —  "  because  the  young  man  refused 
to  take  the  legal  steps  to  proclaim  his  birth  and  natural- 
ize himself  a  Frenchman;  because,  no  sooner  was 
Madame  de  Merville  dead  than  he  forsook  the  father  he 
had  so  newly  discovered,  forsook  France,  and    entered 

Avith  some  other  officers  under  the  brave ,  in  the 

service  of  one  of  the  native  princes  of  India. " 

"  But  perhaps  he  was  poor,"  observed  Lord  Lilburne. 
"  A  father  is  a  very  good  thing,  and  a  coimtry  is  a  very 
good  thing,  but  still  a  man  must  have  money;  and  if 
your  father  does  not  do  much  for  you,  somehow  or  other 
your  country  generally  follows  his  example." 

"  My  lord,"  said  Liancourt,  "  my  friend  here  has  for- 
gotten to  say  that  Madame  de  ]\Ierville  had  by  deed  of 
gift  (though  unknown  to  her  lover)  before  her  death 
made  over  to  young  Vaudemont  the  bulk  of  her  fortune ; 
and  that,  when  he  was  informed  of  this  donation  after 
her  decease,  and  sufficiently  recovered  from  the  stupor 
of  his  grief,  he  summoned  her  relations  round  him, 
declared  that  her  memory  was  too  dear  to  him  for  wealth 
to  console  him  for  her  loss,  and  reser\nng  to  himself 
but  a  modest  and  bare  sufficiency  for  the  common  neces- 
saries of  a  gentleman,  he  divided  the  rest  amongst  them, 
and  repaired  to  the  East,  —  not  only  to  conquer  his  sor- 
row by  the  novelty  and  stir  of  an  exciting  life,  but  to 
carve  out  with  his  own  hand  the  reputation  of  an  honor- 
able and  brave  man.  ily  friend  remembered  the  scandal 
long  buried,  —  he  forgot  the  generous  action." 

"Your  friend,  you  see,  my  dear  Monsieur  de  Lian- 
court," remarked  Lilburne,  "  is  more  a  man  of  the  world 
than  you  are !  " 

"And  I  was  just  going  to  observe,"  said  the  friend 
thus  referred  to ,  "  that  that  very  action  seemed  to  con- 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  105 

firm  the  rumor  that  there  had  been  some  little  manoeu- 
vring as  to  this  unexpected  addition  to  the  name  of 
De  Vaudemont;  for,  if  himself  related  to  Madame  de 
Merville,  why  have  such  scruples  to  receive  her  gift?  " 

"  A  very  shrewd  remark,"  said  Lord  Lilhurne,  looking 
with  some  respect  at  the  speaker;  "  and  I  own  that  it  is 
a  very  unaccountable  proceeding,  and  one  of  which  I 
don't  think  you  or  I  would  ever  have  been  guilty. 
Well,  and  the  old  vicomte?  " 

"  Did  not  live  long!  "  said  the  Frenchman,  evidently 
gratified  by  his  host's  compliment,  while  Liancourt 
threw  himself  back  in  his  chair  in  grave  displeasure. 
"  The  young  man  remained  some  years  in  India,  and 
when  he  returned  to  Paris,  our  friend  here,  Monsieur 
de  Liancourt  (then  in  favor  with  Charles  X.)  and 
Madame  de  Merville's  relations  took  him  up.  He  had 
already  acquired  a  reputation  in  this  foreign  service, 
and  he  obtained  a  place  at  the  court,  and  a  commission 
in  the  king's  guards.  I  allow  that  he  would  certainly 
have  made  a  career,  had  it  not  been  for  the  Three  Days. 
As  it  is,  you  see  him  in  London,  like  the  rest  of  us,  an 
exile!" 

"And,  I  suppose,  without  a  sou." 

"No;  I  believe  that  he  had  still  saved,  and  even 
augmented  in  India,  the  portion  he  allotted  to  himself 
from  Madame  de  Merville's  bequest." 

"And  if  he  don't  play  whist,  he  ought  to  play  it," 
said  Lilburne.  "  You  have  roused  my  curiosity  ;  I  hope 
you  will  let  me  make  his  acquaintance.  Monsieur  de 
Liancourt.  I  am  no  politician,  but  allow  me  to  propose 
this  toast,  '  Success  to  those  who  have  the  wit  to  plan, 
and  the  strength  to  execute.'  In  other  words,  '  the 
Eight  Divine!  '  " 

Soon  afterwards  the  guests  retired. 


106  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 


CHAPTER   IV. 
Ros.  —  Happily,  he 's  the  second  time  come  to  them.  —  Hamlet. 

It  was  the  evening  after  that  in  which  the  conversations 
recorded  in  our  last  chapter  were  held:  evening  in  the 

quiet  suhurh  of  H .     The  desertion  and  silence  of 

the  metropolis  in  September  had  extended  to  its  neigh- 
boring hamlets:  a  village  in  the  heart  of  the  country 
could  scarcely  have  seemed  more  still ;  the  lamps  were 
lighted,  many  of  the  shops  already  closed,  a  few  of  the 
sober  couples  and  retired  spinsters  of  the  place  might, 
here  and  there,  be  seen  slowly  wandering  homeward 
after  their  evening  walk;  two  or  three  dogs,  in  spite  of 
the  prohibitions  of  the  magistrates  placarded  on  the 
walls, — manifestoes  which  threatened  with  death  the 
dogs,  and  predicted  more  than  ordinary  madness  to  the 
public,  —  were  playing  in  the  main  road,  disturbed 
from  time  to  time  as  the  slow  coach,  plying  between  the 
city  and  the  suburb,  crawled  along  the  thoroughfare,  or 
as  the  brisk  mails  whirled  rapidly  by,  announced  by 
the  cloudy  dust  and  the  guard's  lively  horn.  Gradually 
even  these  evidences  of  life  ceased,  — the  saunterers  dis- 
appeared, the  mails  had  passed,  the  dogs  gave  place  to 
the  later  and  more  stealthy  perambulations  of  their 
feline  successors  "  who  love  the  moon."  At  unfrequent 
intervals,  the  more  important  shops  —  the  linen-drapers', 
the  chemists',  and  the  gin-palace  —  still  poured  out, 
across  the  shadowy  road,  their  streams  of  light,  from 
windows  yet  unclosed:  but,  with  these  exceptions,  the 
business  of  the  place  stood  still. 


NIGHT  A^D   MORNING.  107 

At  this  time  there  emerged  from  a  milliner's  house 
(shop,  to  outward  appearance,  it  was  not,  evincing  its 
gentility  and  its  degree,  above  the  Capelocracy,  to 
use  a  certain  classical  neologism,  by  a  brass  plate  on  an 
oak  door,  whereon  was  graven,  "  Miss  Semper,  Milliner 
and  Dressmaker,  from  Mailam  Devy"),  —  at  this  time, 
I  say,  and  from  this  house,  there  emerged  the  light  and 
graceful  form  of  a  young  female.  She  held  in  her  left 
hand  a  little  basket,  of  the  contents  of  which  (for  it  was 
empty)  she  had  apparently  just  disposed;  and,  as  she 
stepped  across  the  road,  the  lamp-light  fell  on  a  face 
in  the  first  bloom  of  youth,  and  characterized  by  an 
expression  of  child-like  innocence  and  candor.  It  was 
a  face  regularly  and  exquisitely  lovely,  yet  something 
there  was  in  the  aspect  that  saddened  you;  you  knew 
not  why,  for  it  was  not  sad  itself;  on  the  contrary,  the 
lips  smiled  and  the  eyes  sparkled.  As  she  now  glided 
along  the  shadowy  street  with  a  light,  quick  step,  a 
man,  who  had  hitherto  been  concealed  by  the  portico 
of  an  attorney's  house,  advanced  stealthily,  and  followed 
her  at  a  little  distance.  Unconscious  that  she  was 
dogged,  and  seemingly  fearless  of  all  danger,  the  girl 
went  lightly  on,  swinging  her  basket  playfully  to  and 
fro,  and  chanting,  in  a  low  but  musical  tone,  some 
verses  that  seemed  rather  to  belong  to  the  nursery  than 
to  that  age  which  the  fair  singer  had  attained. 

As  she  came  to  an  angle  which  the  main  street  formed 
with  a  lane,  narrow,  and  partially  lighted,  a  policeman, 
stationed  there,  looked  hard  at  her,  and  then  touched 
his  hat  with  an  air  of  respect,  in  which  there  seemed 
also  a  little  of  compassion. 

"  Good-night  to  you,"  said  the  girl,  passing  him,  and 
with  a  frank,  gay  tone. 

"  Shall  I  attend  you  home,  miss?  "  said  the  man. 


108  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  What  for  1  T  am  very  well !  "  answered  the  young 
woman,  with  an  accent  and  look  of  innocent  surprise. 

Just  at  this  time  the  man,  who  had  hitherto  followed 
her,  gained  the  spot,  and  turned  down  the  lane. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  policeman;  "but  it  is  getting 
dark,  miss." 

"  So  it  is  every  night  when  I  walk  home,  unless 
there  's  a  moon.  Good-by.  — The  moon,"  she  repeated 
to  herself  as  she  walked  on,  —  "I  used  to  be  afraid  of 
the  moon  when  I  was  a  little  child;  "  and  then  after 
a  pause,  she  murmured,  in  a  low  chant, — 

"  '  The  moon,  she  is  a  wandering  ghost 
That  walks  in  penance  nightly. 
How  sad  she  is,  that  wandering  moon, 
For  all  she  shines  so  brightly  ! 

" '  I  watched  her  eyes  when  I  was  young, 
Until  they  turned  my  brain. 
And  now  I  often  weep  to  think 
'T  will  ne'er  be  right  again.'  " 

As  the  murmur  of  these  words  died  at  a  distance 
down  the  lane  in  which  the  girl  had  disappeared,  the 
policeman,  who  had  paiised  to  listen,  shook  his  head 
mournfully,  and  said,  while  he  moved  on,  — 

"  Poor  thing!  they  should  not  let  her  always  go  about 
by  herself ;  and  yet,  who  would  harm  her  ?  " 

Moanwliile  tlie  girl  proceeded  along  the  lane,  which 
was  skirted  by  small,  but  not  mean  houses,  till  it  ter- 
minated in  a  cross-stile,  that  admitted  into  a  church- 
yard. Here  hung  the  last  lamp  in  the  path,  and  a  few 
dim  stars  broke  palely  over  the  long  grass  and  scattered 
gravestones,  without  piercing  the  deep  shadow  which 
the  church  threw  over  a  large  portion  of  the  sacred 
ground.     Just  as  she  passed  the  stile,   the  man  whom 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  109 

we  have  before  noticed,  and  who  had  been  leaning,  as  if 
waiting  for  some  one,  against  the  pales,  approached, 
and  said  gently,  — 

"  Ah,  miss!  it  is  a  lone  place  for  one  so  beautiful  as 
you  are  to  be  alone.     You  ought  never  to  be  on  foot. " 

The  girl  stopped,  and  looked  full,  but  without  any 
alarm  in  her  eyes,  into  the  man's  face. 

"Go  away!"  she  said,  with  a  half  peevish,  half 
kindly  tone  of  command.      "  I  don't  know  you." 

"  But  I  have  been  sent  to  speak  to  you  by  one  who 
does  know  you,  miss:  one  who  loves  you  to  distraction, 
—  he  has  seen  you  before  at  Mrs.  West's.  He  is  so 
grieved  to  think  you  should  walk,  — you,  who  ought,  he 
says,  to  have  every  luxury, — that  he  has  sent  his  car- 
riage for  you.  It  is  on  the  other  side  of  the  yard.  Do 
come  now;  "  and  he  laid  his  hand,  though  very  lightly, 
on  her  arm. 

"  At  Mrs.  West's!  "  she  said;  and.  for  the  first  time, 
her  voice  and  look  showed  fear.  "Go  away  directly' 
How  dare  you  touch  me!  " 

"  But,  my  dear  miss,  you  have  no  idea  how  my 
employer  loves  you,  and  how  rich  he  is.  See,  he  has  sent 
you  all  this  money;  it  is  gold,  —  real  gold.  You  may 
have  what  you  like,  if  you  will  but  come.  Now,  don't 
be  silly,  miss." 

The  girl  made  no  answer,  but,  with  a  sudden  spring, 
passed  the  man,  and  ran  lightly  and  rapidly  along  the 
path,  in  an  opposite  direction  from  that  to  which  the 
tempter  had  pointed,  when  inviting  her  to  the  carriage. 
The  man,  surprised,  but  not  baffled,  reached  her  in 
an  instant,  and  caught  hold  of  her  dress. 

"Stay!  you  must  come, — younnist!"  he  said,  threat- 
eningly; and,  loosening  his  grasp  on  her  shawl,  he 
threw  his  arm  round  her  waist. 


HO  NIGHT   AND   MOKNING. 

"Don't!"  cried  the  girl,  pleadingly,  and  apparently 
subdued,  turning  lier  fair,  soft  face  upon  her  pursuer, 
and  clasping  her  hands.  "Be  quiet!  Fanny  is  silly ! 
Xo  one  is  «ver  rude  to  poor  Fanny !  " 

"And  no  one  will  be  rude  to  you,  miss,"  said  the 
man,  apparently  touched;  "but  I  dare  not  go  without 
you.  You  don't  know  what  you  refuse.  Come;"  and 
he  attempted  gently  to  draw  her  back. 

"No,  no!  "  said  the  girl,  changing  from  supplication 
to  anger,  and  raising  her  voice  into  a  loud  shriek,  "  No! 
I  will  —  " 

"Nay,  then,"  interrupted  the  man,  looking  round 
anxiously;  and,  with  a  quick  and  dexterous  movement, 
he  threw  a  large  handkerchief  over  her  face,  and,  as  he 
lield  it  fast  to  her  lips,  with  one  hand,  he  lifted  her 
from  the  ground.  Still  violently  struggling,  the  girl 
contrived  to  remove  the  handkerchief,  and  once  more 
her  shriek  of  terror  rang  through  the  violated  sanctuary. 

At  that  instant  a  loud,  deep  voice  was  heard,  "  Who 
calls?  "  And  a  tall  figure  seemed  to  rise,  as  from  the 
grave  itself,  and  emerge  from  the  shadow  of  the  church. 
A  moment  more,  and  a  strong  gripe  was  laid  on  the 
shoulder  of  the  ravisher.  "What  is  this?  On  God's 
ground,  too!     Release  her,  Avretch!  " 

The  man,  trembling,  half  with  superstitious,  half 
with  bodily  fear,  let  go  his  captive,  who  fell  at  once  at 
the  knees  of  her  deliverer. 

"Don't  1J0U  hurt  me,  too,"  she  said,  as  the  tears 
rolled  down  her  eyes,  "I  am  a  good  girl, — and  my 
grandfather  's  blind." 

The  stranger  bent  down  and  raised  her;  then  looking 
round  for  the  assailant  with  an  eye  whose  dark  fire 
shone  through  the  gloom,  he  perceived  the  coward  steal- 
ing off.     He  disdained  to  pursue. 


NIGHT   AND   MOKNING.  Ill 

"My  poor  child,"  said  he,  Avith  that  voice  which 
the  strong  assume  to  the  weak,  the  man  to  some 
wounded  infant,  —  the  voice  of  tender  superiority  and 
compassion,  "  there  is  no  cause  for  fear  now.  Be 
soothed.      Do  you  live  near?     Shall  I  see  you  home?  " 

"Thank  you!  That's  kind.  Pray  do!"  And,  with  an 
infantine  confidence  she  took  his  hand,  as  a  child  does 
that  of  a  grown-up  person :  so  they  walked  on  together. 

"And,"  said  the  stranger,  "do  you  know  that  man? 
Has  he  insulted  you  before  1 " 

"  No ;  don't  talk  of  him :  ce  me  fait  mal !  "  And  she 
put  her  hand  to  her  forehead. 

The  French  was  spoken  with  so  French  an  accent, 
that,  in  some  curiosity,  the  stranger  cast  his  eye  over 
her  plain  dress. 

"  You  speak  French  well." 

"  Do  1 1  I  wish  I  knew  more  words,  —  I  only  recol- 
lect a  few.  When  I  am  very  happy  or  very  sad  they 
come  into  my  head.  But  I  am  happy  now.  I  like  your 
voice,  — I  like  you.      Oh!  I  have  dropped  my  basket!  " 

"  Shall  I  go  back  for  it,  or  shall  I  buy  you  another  ?  " 

"Another!  Oh,  no!  come  back  for  it.  How  kind 
you  are!  Ah!  I  see  it!"  and  she  broke  away  and  ran 
forward  to  pick  it  up. 

When  she  had  recovered  it,  she  laughed;  she  spoke 
to  it,  she  kissed  it. 

Her  companion  smiled  as  he  said,  — 

"Some  sweetheart  has  given  you  that  basket,  —  it 
seems  but  a  common  basket,  too." 

"I  have  had  it  —  oh,  ever  since  —  since  —  I  don't 
know  how  long !  It  came  with  me  from  France,  —  it  was 
full  of  little  toys.      T/iei/  are  gone,  —  I  am  so  sorry  I  " 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  " 

"I  don't  know." 


112  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

"  My  pretty  one,"  said  the  stranger,  with  deep  pity  in 
his  rich  voice,  "  your  mother  should  not  let  you  go  out 
alone  at  this  hour." 

"Mother!  mother!"  repeated  the  girl,  in  a  tone  of 
surprise. 

"  Have  you  no  mother'?  " 

"  N'o!  — •  I  had  a  father  once.  But  he  died,  they  say. 
I  did  not  see  him  die.  I  sometimes  cry  when  I  think 
that  I  shall  never,  never  see  him  again!  But,"  she 
said,  changing  her  accent  from  melancholy  almost  to  joy, 
"  he  is  to  have  a  grave  here  like  the  other  girls'  fathers! 
—  a  fine  stone  upon  it,  —  and  all  to  be  done  with  my 
money !  " 

"  Your  money,  my  child  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  the  money  I  make.  I  sell  my  work  and  take 
the  money  to  my  grandfather;  but  I  lay  by  a  little 
every  week  for  a  gravestone  for  my  father." 

"  Will  the  gravestone  be  placed  in  that  churchyard?  " 
They  were  now  in  another  lane;  and,  as  he  spoke,  the 
stranger  checked  her,  and  bending  down  to  look  into 
her  face,  he  murmured  to  himself,  "  Is  it  possible?  —  it 
must  be,  —  it  must!  " 

"  Yes!  I  love  that  churchyard,  — my  brother  told  me 
to  put  flowers  there ;  and  grandfather  and  I  sit  tliere  in 
the  summer,  without  speaking.  But  I  don't  talk  much, 
I  like  singing  better:  — 

*  All  things  that  good  and  harmless  are, 

Are  taught,  they  say,  to  sing,  — 
The  maiden  resting  at  her  work, 

The  bird  upon  the  wing  ; 
The  little  ones  at  church,  in  prayer. 

The  angels  in  the  sky,  — 
The  angels  less  when  babes  are  bom 

Than  when  the  aged  die.'  " 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  113 

And  unconscious  of  the  latent  mor.al,  dark  or  cheering, 
according  as  we  estimate  the  value  of  this  life,  couched 
in  the  concluding  rhyme,  Fanny  turned  round  to  the 
stranger,  and  said,  "  Why  sliould  the  angels  be  glad 
when  the  aged  die  ?  " 

"  That  they  are  released  from  a  false,  unjust,  and  mis- 
erable world  in  which  the  first  man  was  a  rebel,  and  the 
second  a  murderer !  "  muttered  the  stranger  between  his 
teeth,  which  he  gnashed  as  he  spoke. 

The  girl  did  not  understand  him;  she  shook  her  head 
gently,  and  made  no  reply.  A  few  moments,  and  she 
paused  before  a  small  house. 

"  This  is  my  home. " 

"  It  is  so,"  said  her  companion,  examining  the  exterior 
of  the  house  with  an  earnest  gaze ;  "  and  your  name  is 
Panny." 

"  Yes;  every  one  knows  Fanny.  Come  in;  "  and  the 
girl  opened  the  door  with  a  latch-key. 

The  stranger  bowed  his  stately  height  as  he  crossed 
the  low  threshold,  and  followed  his  guide  into  a  little 
parlor. 

Before  a  table,  on  which  burned  dimly,  and  with 
unheeded  wick,  a  single  candle,  sat  a  man  of  advanced 
age;  and,  as  he  turned  his  face  to  the  door,  the  stranger 
saw  that  he  was  blind.  The  girl  bounded  to  his  chair, 
passed  her  arras  round  the  old  man's  neck,  and  kissed 
his  forehead;  then  nestling  herself  at  his  feet,  and 
leaning  her  clasped  hands  caressingly  on  his  knee,  she 
said, — 

"  Grandpapa,  I  have  brought  you  somebody  you  must 
love.     He  has  been  so  kind  to  Fanny." 

"  And  neither  of  you  can  remember  me !  "  said  the 
guest. 

The   old   man,  whose   dull   face    seemed  to    indicate 

VOL.  II.  —  8 


114  NIGHT   AND   MOllNING. 

dotage,  half  raised  himself  at  the  sound  of  the  stranger's 
voice. 

"  Who  is  that?  "  said  he,  with  a  feeble  and  querulous 
voice.     "  Who  wants  me  ?  " 

"  I  am  the  friend  of  your  lost  son.  I  am  he  who,  ten 
years  ago,  brought  Fanny  to  your  roof,  and  gave  her  to 
your  care,  —  your  son's  last  charge.  And  you  blessed 
your  son,  and  forgave  him,  and  vowed  to  be  a  father 
to  his  Fanny." 

The  old  man,  who  had  now  slowly  risen  to  his  feet, 
trembled  violently,  and  stretched  out  his  hands. 

"  Come  near,  near,  let  me  put  my  hands  on  your 
head.  I  cannot  see  you;  but  Fanny  talks  of  you,  and 
prays  for  you;  and  Fanny,  —  she  has  been  an  angel  to 
me!" 

The  stranger  approached  and  half  knelt  as  the  old  man 
epread  his  hands  over  his  head,  muttering  inaudibly. 
Meanwhile  Fanny,  pale  as  death,  her  lips  apart,  an 
eager,  painful  expression  on  her  face,  looking  inquir- 
ingly on  the  dark,  marked  countenance  of  the  visitor, 
and  creeping  towards  him  inch  by  inch,  fearfully  touched 
his  dress,  his  arms,  his  countenance. 

"Brother,"  she  said  at  last,  doubtingly  and  timidly, 
—  "brother,  I  thought  I  could  never  forget  you!  But 
you  are  not  like  my  brother;  you  are  older:  you  are  — 
you  are !  —  no !  no !  you  are  not  my  brother !  " 

"  I  am  much  changed ,  Fanny ;  and  you  too !  " 

He  smiled  as  he  spoke ;  and  the  smile  —  sweet  and 
pitying  —  thoroughly  changed  the  character  of  his  face, 
which  was  ordinarily  stern,  grave,  and  proud. 

"  I  know  you  now !  "  exclaimed  Fanny,  in  a  tone  of 
wild  joy.  "  And  you  come  back  from  that  grave !  My 
flowers  have  brought  you  back  at  last!  I  knew  they 
would !     Brother !  Brother !  " 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  115 

And  she  threw  herself  on  his  breast  and  burst  into 
passionate  tears.  Then,  suddenly  drawing  herself  back, 
she  laid  her  finger  on  his  arm,  and  looked  up  at  him 
beseechingly. 

"  Pray,  now,  is  he  really  dead  ?  He,  ray  father !  — 
he,  too,  was  lost  like  you.  Can't  he  come  back  again  as 
you  have  done  1  " 

"  Do  you  grieve  for  him  still,  then  ?  Poor  girl !  " 
said  the  stranger,  evasively,  and  seating  himself.  Fanny 
continued  to  listen  for  an  answer  to  her  touching  ques- 
tion; but  finding  that  none  was  given,  she  stole  away 
to  a  corner  of  the  room  and  leaned  her  face  on  her  hands, 
and  seemed  to  think,  —  till  at  last,  as  she  so  sat,  the 
tears  began  to  flow  down  her  cheeks,  and  she  wept,  but 
silently  and  imnoticed. 

"  But,  sir, "  said  the  guest,  after  a  short  pause,  "  how 
is  this  ?  Fanny  tells  me  she  supports  you  by  her  work. 
Are  you  so  poor,  then?  Yet  I  left  you  your  son's 
bequest;  and  you,  too,  I  understood,  though  not  rich, 
were  not  in  want!  " 

"  There  was  a  curse  on  my  gold, "  said  the  old  man, 
sternly.     "  It  was  stolen  from  us. " 

There  was  another  pause.     Simon  broke  it. 

"  And  you,  young  man,  —  how  has  it  fared  with  you  ? 
You  have  prospered,  I  hope." 

"  I  am  as  I  have  been  for  years,  —  alone  in  the  world, 
without  kindred  and  without  friends.  But,  thanks  to 
Heaven,  I  am  not  a  beggar !  " 

"  No  kindred  and  no  friends !  "  repeated  the  old  man. 
"  No  father,  no  brother,  no  wife ,  no  sister !  " 

"  None !  No  one  to  care  whether  I  live  or  die, " 
answered  the  stranger,  with  a  mixture  of  pride  and  sad- 
ness in  his  voice.     "  But,  as  the  song  has  it, — 

'  I  care  for  nobody,  —  no,  not  I, 
For  nobody  cares  for  me  ! '  " 


U6  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

There  was  a  certain  pathos  in  the  mockery  with  which 
he  repeated  the  homely  lines,  although,  as  he  did,  he 
gathered  himself  up,  as  if  conscious  of  a  certain  consola- 
tion and  reliance  on  the  resources  not  dependent  on  others 
which  he  had  found  in  his  own  strong  limbs  and  his  own 
stout  heart. 

At  that  moment  he  felt  a  soft  touch  upon  his  hand, 
and  he  saw  Panny  looking  at  him  through  the  tears  that 
still  flowed. 

"  You  have  no  one  to  care  for  you  1  Don't  say  so ! 
Come  and  live  with  us,  brother ;  we  '11  care  for  you. 
I  have  never  forgotten  the  flowers,  —  never !  Do  come ! 
Fanny  shall  love  you.     Fanny  can  work  for  three/  " 

"  And  they  call  her  an  idiot!  "  mumbled  the  old  man, 
with  a  vacant  smile  on  his  li2)s. 

"  My  sister !     You  sJiall  be  my  sister !     Forlorn  one, 

—  whom  even  nature  has  fooled  and  betrayed!     Sister! 

—  we,  both  orphans !  Sister  !  "  exclaimed  that  dark, 
stern  man,  passionately,  and  with  a  broken  voice;  and 
he  opened  his  arms,  and  Fanny,  without  a  blush  or  a 
thought  of  shame,  threw  herself  on  his  breast.  He 
kissed  her  forehead  with  a  kiss  that  was,  indeed,  pure 
and  holy  as  a  brother's ;  and  Fanny  felt  that  he  had  left 
upon  her  cheek  a  tear  that  was  not  her  own. 

"  Well, "  he  said,  with  an  altered  voice,  and  taking 
the  old  man's  hand,  "  what  say  you  1  Shall  I  take  up 
my  lodging  with  you?  I  have  a  little  money;  I  can 
protect  and  aid  you  both.  I  shall  be  often  away, —  in 
London  or  elsewhere,  —  and  will  not  intrude  too  much 
on  you.  But  you  blind,  and  she  [here  he  broke  oif 
the  sentence  abruptly,  and  went  on]  —  you  should  not 
be  left  alone.  And  this  neighborhood,  that  burial-place, 
are  dear  to  me.  T,  too,  Fanny,  have  lost  a  parent; 
and  that  grave  —  " 


NIGHT   AND    MOi;>;iis'G.  117 

He  paused,  and  then  added,  in  a  treniLling  voice, 
"  And  you  have  placed  flowers  over  that  grave  1  " 

"  Stay  with  us, "  said  the  bhnd  man ;  "  not  for  our 
sake,  but  your  own.  The  world  is  a  had  place.  I  have 
>)een  long  sick  of  the  world.  Yes!  come  and  live  near 
the  burial-ground;  the  nearer  you  are  to  tlie  grave,  the 
safer  you  are,  —  and  you  have  a  little  money,  you  say  1  " 

"  1  will  come  to-morrow,  then.  I  must  return  now. 
To-morrow,  Fanny,  we  shall  meet  again. " 

"Must  you  go?"  said  Fanny,  tenderly.  "But  you 
will  come  again ;  you  know  I  used  to  think  every  one 
died  when  he  left  me.  I  am  wiser  now.  Yet  still, 
when  you  do  leave  me,  it  is  true  that  you  die  for 
Fanny !  " 

At  this  moment,  as  the  three  persons  were  grouped, 
each  had  assumed  a  posture  of  form,  an  expression  of 
face,  which  a  painter  of  fitting  sentiment  and  skill  would 
have  loved  to  study.  The  visitor  had  gained  the  door ; 
and,  as  he  stood  there,  his  noble  height,  the  magnifi- 
cent strength  and  healtli  of  his  manhood  in  its  full  prime, 
contrasted  alike  the  almost  spectral  debility  of  extreme 
age  and  the  graceful  delicacy  of  Fanny,  half  girl,  half 
child.  There  was  something  foreign  in  his  air,  and  the 
half  military  habit,  relieved  by  the  red  ribbon  of  the 
Bourbon  knighthood.  His  complexion  was  dark  as  that 
of  a  Moor,  and  his  raven  hair  curled  close  to  the  stately 
head.  The  soldier-mustache  —  thick,  but  glossy  as  silk 
—  shaded  the  firm  lip ;  and  the  pointed  beard,  assumed 
by  the  exiled  Carlists,  heightened  the  effect  of  the  strong 
and  haughty  features,  and  the  expression  of  the  martial 
countenance. 

But  as  Fanny's  voice  died  on  his  ear,  he  half  averted 
that  proud  face ;  and  the  dark  eyes  —  almost  Oriental 
in  their  brilliancy  and  depth  of  shade  —  seemed  soft  and 


lis  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

h\unid.  And  there  stood  Fanny,  in  a  posture  of  such 
unconscious  sadness,  such  childlike  innocence,  —  her 
arms  drooping,  her  face  wistfully  turned  to  his,  and  a 
half-smile  upon  the  lips,  that  made  still  more  touching 
tlie  tears  not  yet  dried  upon  her  cheeks.  While  thin, 
frail,  shadowy,  with  white  hair  and  furrowed  cheeks 
the  old  man  fixed  his  sightless  orbs  on  space;  and  his 
face,  usually  only  animated  from  the  lethargy  of  advanc- 
ing dotage  by  a  certain  querulous  cynicism,  now  grew 
suddenly  earnest  and  even  thoughtful,  as  Fanny  spoke 
of  death  ! 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  119 


CHAPTER  V. 

Uli/ss.  —  Time  hath  a  wallet  at  his  back 
Whereiu  he  puts  alms  for  oblivion. 
.     .    ,     Perseverance,  dear,  my  lord. 
Keeps  honor  bright. 

Troilus  and  Cressida. 

I  HAVE  not  sought  —  as  would  have  been  easy,  by  a 
little  ingenuity  in  the  early  portion  of  tliis  narrative  — 
whatever  source  of  vulgar  interest  might  be  derived  from 
the  mystery  of  names  and  persons.  As  in  Charles 
Spencer  the  reader  is  allowed  at  a  glance  to  detect 
Sidney  Morton,  so  in  Philip  de  Vaudemont  (the  stranger 
who  rescued  Fanny)  the  reader  at  once  recognizes  the 
hero  of  my  tale ;  but,  since  neither  of  these  young  men 
has  a  better  right  to  the  name  resigned  than  to  the  name 
adopted,  it  will  be  simpler  and  more  convenient  to  desig- 
nate them  by  those  appellations  by  which  they  are 
now  known  to  the  world.  In  truth,  Philip  de  Vaude- 
mont was  scarcely  the  same  being  as  Philip  Morton.  In 
the  short  visit  he  had  paid  to  the  elder  Gawtrey,  when 
he  consigned  Panny  to  his  charge,  he  had  given  no 
name;  and  the  one  he  now  took  (when,  towards  the 
evening  of  the  next  day,  he  returned  to  Simon's  house) 
the  old  man  heard  for  the  first  time.  Once  more  sunk 
into  his  usual  apathy,  Simon  did  not  express  any  surprise 
that  a  Frenchman  should  be  so  well  acquainted  with 
English,  —  he  scarcely  observed  that  the  name  was 
French.  Simon's  age  seemed  daily  to  bring  him  more 
and  more  to  that  state  when  life  is  mere  mechanism,  and 
the  soul,  preparing  for  its  departure,  no  longer  heeds  the 


120  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

tenement  that  crumbles  silently  and  neglected  into  its 
lonely  dust.  Vaudemont  came  with  but  little  luggage 
(for  he  had  an  apartment  also  in  London)  and  no  attend- 
ant, —  a  single  horse  was  consigned  to  the  stables  of  an 
inn  at  hand,  and  he  seemed,  as  soldiers  are,  more  careful 
for  the  comforts  of  the  animal  than  his  own.  There  was 
but  one  woman  servant  in  the  humble  household,  who 
did  all  the  ruder  work;  for  Fanny's  industry  could  afford 
it.  The  solitary  servant  and  the  homely  fare  sufficed  for 
the  simple  and  hardy  adventurer. 

Fanny,  with  a  countenance  radiant  with  joy,  took  his 
hand  and  led  him  to  his  room.  Poor  child !  with  that 
instinct  of  ivoman  which  never  deserted  her,  she  had 
busied  herself  the  whole  day  in  striving  to  deck  the 
chamber  according  to  her  own  notions  of  comfort.  She 
had  stolen  from  her  little  hoard  Avherewithal  to  make 
some  small  purchases,  on  which  the  Dowbiggin  of  the 
suburb  had  been  consulted.  And  what  with  flowers  on 
the  table,  and  a  fire  at  the  hearth,  the  room  looked 
cheerful. 

She  watched  him  as  he  glanced  around,  and  felt 
disappointed  that  he  did  not  xitt^r  the  admiration  she 
expected.  Angry  at  last  with  the  indifference  which,  in 
fact,  as  to  external  accommodation,  was  habitual  to  him, 
she  plucked  his  sleeve,  and  said,  — 

"  Why  don't  you  speak  1  Is  it  not  nice  ?  Fann}'  did 
her  best." 

"  And  a  thousand  thanks  to  Fanny !  It  is  all  I  could 
wish." 

"  There  is  another  room,  bigger  than  this,  but  the 
wicked  woman  who  robbed  us  slept  there  ;  and  besides, 
you  said  you  liked  the  churchyard.  See ! "  and  she 
opened  the  window,  and  pointed  to  the  church-tower 
rising  dark  against  the  evening  sky. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNIXG.  121 

"  This  is  better  than  all !  "  said  Vaudemont ;  and  he 
looked  out  from  the  window  in  a  silent  reverie,  which 
Fanny  did  not  disturb. 

And  now  he  was  settled!  From  a  career  so  wild, 
agitated,  and  various,  the  adventurer  paused  in  that 
liumble  resting-nook.  But  quiet  is  not  repose,  — ob- 
scurity is  not  content.  Often  as,  morn  and  eve,  he 
looked  forth  upon  the  spot,  where  his  mother's  heart, 
imconscious  of  love  and  woe,  mouldered  away,  the  in- 
dignant and  bitter  feelings  of  the  wronged  outcast  and 
the  son  who  could  not  clear  the  mother's  name,  swept 
away  the  subdued  and  gentle  melancholy  into  which 
time  usually  softens  regret  for  the  dead,  and  with  which 
most  of  us  think  of  the  distant  past,  and  the  once  joyous 
childhood ! 

In  this  man's  breast  lay,  concealed  by  his  external 
calm,  those  memories  and  aspirations  which  are  as  strong 
as  passions.  In  his  earlier  years,  when  he  had  been  put 
to  hard  shifts  for  existence,  he  had  found  no  leisure  for 
close  and  brooding  reflection  upon  that  spoliation  of  just 
rights,  that  calumny  upon  his  mother's  name,  which 
had  first  brought  the  Night  into  his  Morning.  His 
resentment  towards  the  Beauforts,  it  is  true,  had  ever 
been  an  intense  but  a  fitful  and  irregular  passion.  It 
was  exactly  in  proportion  as,  by  those  rare  and  romantic 
incidents  which  fiction  cannot  invent,  and  which  narra- 
tive takes  with  diffidence  from  the  great  storehouse  of 
real  life,  his  steps  had  ascended  in  the  social  ladder,  that 
all  which  his  childhood  had  lost,  all  which  the  robbers 
of  his  heritage  had  gained,  the  grandeur  and  the  power 
of  WEALTH,  above  all,  the  hourly  and  the  tranquil 
happiness  of  a  stainless  name,  became  palpable  and  dis- 
tinct. He  had  loved  Eugenie  as  a  boy  loves  for  the  first 
time  an   accomplished   woman.     He  regarded   her  —  so 


122  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

refined,  so  gentle,  so  gifted  —  with  the  feelings  due  to  a 
superior  being,  with  an  eternal  recollection  of  the  minis- 
tering angel  that  had  shone  upon  him  when  he  stood  on 
the  dark  abyss.  She  was  the  first  that  had  redeemed 
liis  fate;  the  first  that  had  guided  aright  his  path;  the 
first  that  had  tamed  the  savage  at  his  breast:  it  was  the 
young  lion  charmed  by  the  eyes  of  Una.  The  outline  of 
his  story  had  been  truly  given  at  Lord  Lilburne's. 
Despite  his  pride,  which  revolted  from  such  obligations 
to  another,  and  a  Avoman,  —  which  disliked  and  struggled 
against  a  disguise  which  at  once  and  alone  saved  him 
from  the  detection  of  the  past  and  the  terrors  of  the 
future,  — he  had  yielded  to  her,  the  wise  and  the  gentle, 
as  one  whose  judgment  he  could  not  doubt;  and,  indeed, 
the  slanderous  falsehoods  circulated  by  the  lackey,  to 
whose  discretion,  the  night  of  Gawtrey's  death,  Eugenie 
had  preferred  to  confide  her  own  honor  rather  than 
another's  life,  had  (as  Liancourt  rightly  stated)  left 
Philip  no  option  but  that  which  Madame  de  Merville 
deemed  the  best,  whether  for  lier  happiness  or  her  good 
name.  Then  had  followed  a  brief  season,  —  the  holiday  of 
his  life,  —  the  season  of  young  hope  and  passion,  of 
brilliancy  and  joy,  closing  by  that  abrupt  death  which 
again  left  him  lonely  in  the  world. 

When,  from  the  grief  that  succeeded  to  the  death  of 
Eugenie,  he  woke  to  find  himself  amidst  the  strange  faces 
and  exciting  scenes  of  an  Oriental  court,  he  turned  with 
hard  and  disgustful  contempt  from  pleasure,  as  an  infi- 
delity to  the  dead.  Ambition  crept  over  him;  his  mind 
hardened  as  his  cheek  lu'onzed  under  those  burning  suns; 
his  hardy  frame,  his  energies  prematurely  awakened,  his 
constitutional  disregard  to  danger  made  him  a  brave  and 
skilful  soldier.  He  acquired  reputation  and  rank.  But, 
as  time  went  on,  the  ambition  took  a  higher  flight,  —  he 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  123 

felt  his  sphere  circurascriljed;  the  Eastern  indolence  that 
tilled  up  the  long  intervals  between  Eastern  action  chafed 
a  tempernever  at  rest.  He  returned  to  France.  His  repu- 
tation, Liancourt's  friendship,  and  the  relations  of  Eugenie 
—  grateful,  as  has  before  been  implied,  for  the  generosity 
with  which  he  surrendered  the  principal  part  of  her 
donation  —  opened  for  him  a  new  career,  but  one  painful 
and  galling.  In  the  Indian  court  there  was  no  question 
of  his  birth,  —  one  adventurer  was  equal  Avith  the  rest. 
But  in  Paris,  a  man  attempting  to  rise  provoked  all  the 
sarcasm  of  wit,  all  the  cavils  of  party ;  and  in  polished 
and  civil  life,  what  valor  has  weapons  against  a  jest? 
Thus,  in  civilization,  all  the  passions  that  spring  from 
humiliated  self-love  and  baffled  aspiration  again  preyed 
upon  his  breast.  He  saw,  then,  that  the  more  he  strug- 
gled from  obscurity,  the  more  acute  Avould  become 
research  into  his  true  origin ;  and  his  writhing  pride 
almost  stung  to  death  his  ambition.  To  succeed  in  life  by 
regular  means  was  indeed  difficult  for  this  man :  always 
recoiling  from  the  name  he  bore ;  always  strong  in 
the  hope  yet  to  regain  that  to  which  he  conceived  himself 
entitled;  cherishing  that  pride  of  country  which  never 
deserts  the  native  of  a  free  state,  however  harsh  a  parent 
she  may  have  proved ;  and,  above  all,  whatever  his  ambi- 
tion and  his  passions,  taking,  from  the  very  misfortunes 
he  had  known,  an  indomitable  belief  in  the  ultimate  jus- 
tice of  Heaven,  —  he  had  refused  to  sever  the  last  ties  that 
connected  him  with  his  lost  heritage  and  his  forsaken 
land;  he  refused  to  be  naturalized,  to  make  the  name  he 
bore  legally  undisput-ed;  he  was  contented  to  be  an 
alien.  Neither  was  Vaudemont  fitted  exactly  for  that 
crisis  in  the  social  world  when  the  men  of  journals  and 
talk  bustle  aside  the  men  of  action.  He  had  not  culti- 
vated literature,  he  had  no  book-knowledge,  —  the  world 


124  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

had  been  his  school,  and  stern  life  his  teacher.  Still, 
eminently  skilled  in  those  physical  accomplishments  which 
men  admire  and  soldiers  covet,  calm  and  self-possessed  in 
manner,  of  great  personal  advantages,  of  much  ready 
talent  and  of  practised  oliservation  in  character,  he  con- 
tinned  to  breast  the  obstacles  around  him,  and  to  establish 
himself  in  the  favor  of  those  in  power.  It  was  natural 
to  a  person  so  reared  and  circumstanced  to  have  no  sym- 
pathy with  what  is  called  the  popular  cause.  He  was 
no  citizen  in  the  state,  —  he  was  a  stranger  in  the  land. 
He  had  suffered,  and  still  suffered  too  much  from  man- 
kind, to  have  that  philanthropy,  sometimes  visionary  but 
always  noble,  Avhich,  in  fact,  generally  springs  from  the 
studies  we  cultivate,  not  in  the  forum,  but  the  closet. 
Men,  alas!  too  often  lose  the  democratic  enthusiasm  in 
proportion  as  they  find  reason  to  suspect  or  despise  their 
kind.  And  if  there  were  not  hopes  for  the  future,  Avhich 
this  hard,  practical,  daily  life  does  not  suffice  to  teach  us, 
the  vision  and  the  glory  that  belong  to  the  great  popular 
creed,  dimmed  beneath  the  injustice,  the  follies,  and  the 
vices  of  the  world  as  it  is,  would  fade  into  the  lukewarm 
sectarianism  of  temporary  party.  Moreover,  Vaudemont's 
habits  of  thouglit  and  reasoning  were  those  of  the  camp, 
confirmed  by  the  systems  familiar  to  hnu  in  the  East:  he 
regarded  the  populace  as  a  soldier  enamored  of  discipline 
and  order  usually  does.  His  theories,  therefore,  or  rather 
his  ignorance  of  what  is  souncl  in  theory,  went  with 
Charles  X.  in  his  excesses,  but  not  with  the  timidity 
which  terminated  those  excesses  by  dethronement  and 
disgrace.  Chafed  to  the  heart,  gnawed  with  proud  grief, 
he  obeyed  the  royal  mandates,  and  followed  the  exiled 
monarch :  his  hopes  overthrown,  his  career  in  France 
annihilated  forever.  But,  on  entering  England,  his 
temper,  confident  and   ready    of  resource,  fastened  itself 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  125 

on  new  food.  Tn  the  land  where  he  had  no  name  he 
might  yet  rebuild  his  fortunes.  It  was  an  arduous  effort, 
- —  an  improbable  hope ;  but  the  words  heard  by  the 
bridge  of  Paris  —  words  that  had  often  cheered  him  in 
his  exile  through  hardships  and  through  dangers  which 
it  is  unnecessary  to  our  narrative  to  detail  —  yet  rang 
again  in  his  ear,  as  he  leaped  on  his  native  land,  "  Time, 
Faith,  Energy." 

While  such  his  character  in  the  larger  and  more  dis- 
tant relations  of  life,  in  the  closer  circles  of  companion- 
ship many  rare  and  noble  qualities  were  visible.  It  is 
true  that  he  was  stern,  perhaps  imperious,  —  of  a  temper 
that  always  struggled  for  command ;  but  he  was  deeply 
susceptible  of  kindness,  and  if  feared  by  those  who 
opposed,  loved  by  those  who  served  him.  About  his 
character  was  that  mixture  of  tenderness  and  fierceness, 
which  belonged,  of  old,  to  the  descriptions  of  the  warrior. 
Though  so  Kttle  lettered,  life  had  taught  him  a  certain 
poetry  of  sentiment  and  idea, —  more  poetry,  perhaps,  in 
the  silent  thoughts  that,  in  his  happier  moments,  filled 
his  solitude,  than  in  half  the  pages  that  his  brother  had 
read  and  written  by  the  dreaming  lake.  A  certain  large- 
ness of  idea  and  nobility  of  impulse  often  made  him  act 
the  sentiments  of  which  bookmen  write.  With  all  his 
passions,  he  held  licentiousness  in  disdain;  with  all  his 
ambition  for  the  power  of  wealth,  he  despised  its  luxury. 
Simple,  masculine,  severe,  abstemious,  he  was  of  that 
mould  in  which,  in  earlier  times,  the  successful  men  of 
action  have  been  cast.  But  to  successful  action,  circum- 
stance is  more  necessary  than  to  triumphant  study. 

It  was  to  be  expected  that,  in  })roportion  as  he  had 
been  familiar  with  a  purer  and  nobler  life,  he  should  look 
Avith  great  and  deep  self-humiliation  at  his  early  associa- 
tion with  Gawtrey.     He  was  in  this  respect  more  severe 


126  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

on  himself  tlian  any  otlier  mind  ordinarily  just  and 
candid  would  have  been,  —  when  fairly  surveying  the  cir- 
cumstances of  penury,  hunger,  and  despair,  which  had 
driven  him  to  Gawtrey's  roof,  the  imperfect  nature  of  his 
early  education,  the  boyish  trust  and  affection  he  had  felt 
for  Ins  protector,  and  his  own  ignorance  of,  and  exemp- 
tion froui,  all  the  worse  practices  of  that  unhappy  criminal. 
But  still,  when,  with  the  knowledge  he  had  now  acquired, 
the  ?na7i  looked  calmly  back,  his  cheek  burned  with 
remorseful  shame  at  his  unreflecting  companionship  in 
a  life  of  subterfuge  and  equivocation,  the  true  nature 
of  which,  the  boi/  (so  circumstanced  as  we  have  shown 
him)  might  be  forgiven  for  not  at  that  time  comprehend- 
ing. Two  advantages  resulted,  however,  from  the  error 
and  the  remorse:  first,  the  humiliation  it  brought, 
curbed,  in  some  measure,  a  pride  that  might  otherwise 
have  been  arrogant  and  unamiable ;  and,  secondly,  as  I 
have  before  intimated,  his  profound  gratitude  to  Heaven 
for  his  deliverance  from  the  snares  that  had  beset  his 
youth,  gave  his  future  the  guide  of  an  earnest  and  heart- 
felt faitli.  He  acknowledged  in  life  no  such  thing  as 
accident.  Whatever  his  struggles,  whatever  his  melan- 
choly, whatever  his  sense  of  worldly  wrong,  he  never 
despaired ;  for  nothing  now  could  shake  his  belief  in  one 
directing  Providence. 

The  ways  and  habits  of  Vaudemont  were  not  at  dis- 
cord with  those  of  the  quiet  household  in  wliich  he  was 
now  a  guest.  Like  most  men  of  strong  frames,  and 
accustomed  to  active,  not  studious  pursuits,  he  rose  early 
and  usually  rode  to  London,  to  come  back  late  at  noon  to 
their  frugal  meal.  And  if  again,  perhaps  after  the  hour 
when  Fanny  and  Simon  retired,  he  would  often  return  to 
London,  his  own  pass-key  re-admitted  him,  at  whatever 
time  he  came  back,  without  disturbing  the  sleep  of  the 


NIGHT   AND    MORNI^'G.  127 

household.  Sometimes  when  the  sun  began  to  decline, 
if  the  air  was  warm,  the  old  man  would  crawl  out,  lean- 
ing on  that  strong  arm,  through  the  neighboring  lanes, 
ever  returning  through  the  lonely  burial-ground ;  or  when 
the  blind  host  clung  to  his  fireside,  and  composed  himself 
to  sleep,  Philip  would  saunter  forth  along  with  Fanny ; 
and  on  the  days  when  she  went  to  sell  her  work,  or  select 
her  purchases,  he  always  made  a  point  of  attending  her. 
And  her  cheek  wore  a  flush  of  pride  when  she  saw  him 
carrying  her  little  basket,  or  waiting  without,  in  musing 
patience,  while  she  performed  her  commissions  in  the 
shops.  Though,  in  reality,  Fanny's  intellect  was  ripen- 
ing within,  yet  still  the  surface  often  misled  the  eye  as 
to  the  depths.  It  was  rather  that  something  yet  held 
back  the  faculties  from  their  growth,  than  that  the  facul- 
ties themselves  were  wanting.  Her  weakness  was  more 
of  the  nature  of  the  infant's  than  of  one  afflicted  with 
incurable  imbecility.  For  instance,  she  managed  the 
little  household  with  skill  and  prudence ;  she  could  cal- 
culate in  her  head  as  rapidly  as  Vaudemont  himself,  the 
arithmetic  necessary  to  her  simple  duties ;  she  knew  the 
value  of  money,  which  is  more  than  some  of  us  wise  folk 
do.  Her  skill,  even  in  her  infancy  so  remarkable,  in 
various  branches  of  female  handiwork,  was  carried,  not 
only  by  perseverance,  but  by  invention  and  peculiar 
talent,  to  a  marvellous  and  exquisite  perfection.  Her 
embroidery,  especially  in  what  was  then  more  rare  than 
at  present,  —  namely,  flowers  on  silk,  —  was  much  in 
request  among  the  great  modistes  of  London,  to  whom  it 
found  its  way  through  the  agency  of  Miss  Semper.  So 
that  all  this  had  enabled  her,  for  years,  to  provide  every 
necessary  comfort  of  life  for  herself  and  her  blind  pro- 
tector. And  her  care  for  the  old  man  was  beautiful  in 
its  minuteness,   its  vigilance.     Wlierever  her  heart  was 


128  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

interested,  there  never  seemed  a  deficiency  of  mind. 
Vaudemont  was  touched  to  see  how  much  of  affectionate 
and  pitying  respect  she  appeared  to  enjoy  in  tlie  neighbor- 
hood, especially  among  the  humbler  classes,  —  even  the 
beggar  who  swept  the  crossings  did  not  beg  of  her,  but 
bade  God  bless  her  as  she  passed;  and  the  rude,  discon- 
tented artisan  would  draw  himself  from  the  wall  and 
answer,  with  a  softened  brow,  the  smile  with  which  the 
harmless  one  charmed  his  courtesy.  In  fact,  whatever 
attraction  she  took  from  her  youth,  her  beauty,  her  mis- 
fortune, and  her  affecting  industry,  was  heightened,  in 
the  eyes  of  the  poorer  neighbors,  by  many  little  traits  of 
charity  and  kindness;  many  a  sick  child  had  she  tended, 
and  many  a  breadless  board  had  stolen  something  from 
the  stock  set  aside  for  her  father's  grave, 

"  Don't  you  think, "  she  once  whispered  to  Vaudemont, 
"  that  God  attends  to  us  more  if  we  are  good  to  those  who 
are  sick  and  hungry  1  " 

"  Certainly,  Ave  are  taught  to  think  so. " 

"  Well,  I  '11  tell  you  a  secret,  —  don't  tell  again. 
Grandpapa  once  said  that  my  father  liad  done  bad 
things ;  now,  if  Fanny  is  good  to  those  she  can  help,  I 
think  that  God  will  hear  her  more  kindly  when  she  prays 
him  to  forgive  what  her  father  did.  Do  you  think  so 
too  1     Do  say,  —  you  are  so  wise  !  " 

"  Fanny,  you  are  wiser  than  all  of  us ;  and  I  feel 
myself  better  and  happier  when  I  hear  you  speak. " 

Tliere  were,  indeed,  many  moments  when  Vaudemont 
thought  that  her  deficiencies  of  intellect  might  have  been 
repaired,  long  since,  by  skilful  culture  and  habitual  com- 
panionship with  those  of  her  own  age;  from  which  com- 
panionship, however,  Fanny,  even  when  at  school,  had 
shrunk  aloof.  At  other  moments  there  was  something 
so  absent  and  distracted  about  her,  or  so  fantastic  and 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  129 

incoherent,  tliat  Yaudemont,  with  tlie  man's  hard,  worldly 
eye,  read  in  it  nothing  but  melancholy  confusion.  ISTever- 
theless,  if  the  skein  of  ideas  was  entangled,  each  thread 
in  itself  was  a  thread  of  gold. 

Fanny's  great  object  —  her  great  ambition,  her  one 
hope  —  was  a  tomb  for  her  supposed  father.  Whether 
from  some  of  that  early  religion  attached  to  the  grave, 
which  is  most  felt  in  Catholic  countries,  and  which  she 
had  imbibed  at  the  convent;  or  from  her  residence  so 
near  the  burial-ground,  and  the  affection  with  which  she 
regarded  the  spot,  —  whatever  the  cause,  she  had 
cherished  for  some  years,  as  young  maidens  usually 
cherish  the  desire  of  the  altar,  the  dream  of  the  grave- 
stone. But  the  hoard  was  amassed  so  slowly :  now  old 
Gawtrey  was  attacked  by  illness;  now  there  was  some 
little  difficulty  in  the  rent;  now  some  fluctuation  in  the 
price  of  work ;  and  now,  and  more  often  than  all,  some 
demand  on  her  charity,  which  interfered  with,  and  drew 
from  the  pious  savings.  This  was  a  sentiment  in  which 
her  new  friend  sympathized  deeply ;  for  he,  too,  remem- 
bered that  his  first  gold  had  bought  that  humble  stone 
which  still  preserved  upon  the  earth  the  memory  of  his 
mother. 

Meanwhile  days  crept  on,  and  no  new  violence  was 
offered  to  Fanny.  Vaudemont  learned,  then,  by  little 
and  little,  — and  Fanny's  account  was  very  confused,  — • 
the  nature  of  the  danger  she  had  run. 

It  seemed  that  one  day,  tempted  by  the  fineness  of 
the  weather  up  the  road  that  led  from  the  suburb  farther 
into  the  country,  Fanny  was  stopped  by  a  gentleman  in 
a  carriage,  who  accosted  her,  as  she  said,  very  kindly, 
and,  after  several  questions,  which  she  answered  with 
her  usual  unsuspecting  innocence,  learned  her  trade, 
insisted  on  purchasing  some  articles  of  work  which  she 

VOL.  II.  —  9 


130  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

had  at  the  moment  in  her  basket,  and  promised  to 
procure  her  a  constant  purchaser,  upon  much  better 
terms  than  she  had  hitherto  obtained,  if  she  would  call 
at  the  house  of  a  Mrs.  West,  about  a  mile  from  the 
suburb  towards  London.  This  she  promised  to  do,  and 
this  she  did,  according  to  the  address  he  gave  her.  She 
was  admitted  to  a  lady  more  gayly  dressed  than  Fanny 
had  ever  seen  a  lady  before.  The  gentleman  was  also 
present;  they  both  loaded  her  with  compliments,  and 
bought  her  work  at  a  price  which  seemed  about  to 
realize  all  the  hopes  of  the  poor  girl  as  to  the  gravestone 
for  William  Gawtrey,  —  as  if  his  evil  fate  pursued  that 
wild  man  beyond  the  grave,  and  his  very  tomb  was  to  be 
purchased  by  the  gold  of  the  polluter!  The  lady  then 
appointed  her  to  call  again ;  but  meanwhile,  she  met 
Fanny  in  the  streets,  and  while  she  was  accosting  her,  it 
fortunately  chanced  that  Miss  Semper  the  milliner  passed 
that  way,  turned  round,  looked  hard  at  the  lady,  used 
very  angry  language  to  her,  seized  Fanny's  hand,  led  her 
away,  while  the  lady  slunk  off,  and  told  her  that  the 
said  lady  was  a  very  bad  woman,  and  that  Fanny  must 
never  speak  to  her  again.  Fanny  most  cheerfully 
promised  this.  And,  in  fact,  the  lady,  probably  afraid, 
whether  of  the  mob  or  the  magistrates,  never  again  came 
near  her. 

"  And, "  said  Fanny,  "  I  gave  the  money  they  had 
both  given  to  me  to  Miss  Semper,  who  said  she  would 
send  it  back." 

"  You  did  right,  Fanny ;  and  as  you  made  one  promise 
to  ]Miss  Semper,  so  you  must  make  me  one,  —  never  to 
stir  from  home  again  witliout  me  or  some  other  person. 
No,  no  other  person,  —  only  me.  I  will  give  up  every- 
tliing  else  to  go  with  you. " 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  131 

"Will  you?  Oh,  yes,  I  promise!  I  used  to  like 
going  alone,  but  that  was  before  you  came,  brother. " 

And  as  Fanny  kept  her  promise,  it  would  have  been  a 
bold  gallant,  indeed,  who  would  have  ventured  to  molest 
her  by  the  side  of  that  stately  and  strong  protector. 


132  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Timnn.  — Each  thing's  a  thief: 
The  laws,  your  curb  and  wliip,  iu  their  rough  power 
Have  unchecked  theft. 


The  sweet  degrees  that  this  brief  world  affords, 
To  such  as  may  the  passive  drugs  of  it 
Freely  command. 

Timon  of  Athens. 

On"  the  day  and  at  the  hour  fixed  for  the  interview  with 
the  stranger  Avho  had  visited  ]\Ir.  Beaufort,  Lord  Lil- 
burne  was  seated  in  the  library  of  his  brotlier-in-law ;  and 
before  the  elbow-chair,  on  which  he  lolled  carelessly, 
stood  our  old  friend  Mr.  Sharp,  of  Bow  Street  notability. 
"  Mr.  Sharp, "  said  the  peer,  "  I  have  sent  for  you  to 
do  me  a  little  favor.  I  expect  a  man  here  who  professes 
to  give  Mr.  Beaufort,  my  brother-in-law,  some  informa- 
tion about  a  lawsuit.  It  is  necessary  to  know  the  exact 
value  of  his  evidence.  I  wish  you  to  ascertain  all  partic- 
ulars about  him.  Be  so  good  as  to  seat  yourself  in  the 
porter's  chair  in  the  hall ;  note  him  when  he  enters,  un- 
observed yourself,  —  but  as  he  is  probably  a  stranger  to 
you,  note  him  still  more  when  he  leaves  the  house; 
follow  him  at  a  distance ;  find  out  where  he  lives,  whom 
he  associates  with,  Avhere  he  visits,  their  names  and  direc- 
tions, what  his  character  and  calling  are,  — in  a  word, 
everything  you  can,  and  report  to  me  each  evening.  Dog 
him  well,  never  lose  sight  of  liim,  —  you  will  be  hand- 
somely paid.     You  understand  ?  " 


NTGIIT    AND    AIORNING.  133 

"Ah!"  said  ]\Tr.  Sharp,  "leave  me  alone,  my  lord. 
Been  employed  before  by  your  lordship's  brother-in-law. 
We  knows  what  's  wliat." 

"  I  don't  doiil)t  it.  To  your  post.  I  expect  him 
every  moment." 

And,  in  ta«t,  Mr.  Sharp  had  only  just  ensconced 
himself  in  the  porter's  chair  when  the  stranger  knocked 
at  the  door,  —  in  another  moment  he  was  shown  in  to 
Lord  Lilburne. 

"  Sir,"  said  his  lordship,  without  rising,  "  he  so  good 
as  to  take  a  chair.  Mr.  Beaufort  is  obliged  to  leave 
town;  he  has  asked  me  to  see  you,  —  I  am  one  of  his 
family:  his  wife  is  my  sister, — you  may  be  as  frank 
with  me  as  with  him;  more  so,  perhaps." 

"  I  beg  the  fauvor  of  your  name,  sir,"  said  the  stranger, 
adjusting  his  collar. 

"  Yours  first,  — business  is  business." 

"Well,  then,  Captain  Smith." 

"Of  what  regiment?" 

"Half-pay." 

"  I  am  Lord  Lilburne.  Your  name  is  Smith,  — 
humph!  "  added  the  peer,  looking  over  some  notes  before 
him.  "  I  see  it  is  also  the  name  of  the  witness  appealed 
to  by  Mrs.  Morton,  —  humph !  " 

At  this  remark,  and  still  more  at  the  look  which 
accompanied  it,  the  countenance,  before  impudent  and 
complacent,  of  Captain  Smith  fell  into  visible  embar- 
rassment; he  cleared  his  throat  and  said,  with  a  little 
hesitation,  — 

"  My  lord,  that  witness  is  living!  " 

"  No  doubt  of  it,  —  witnesses  never  die  where  property 
is  concerned  and  imposture  intended. " 

At  this  moment  the  servant  entered  and  placed  a  little 
note,  qiiaintly  folded,  before  Lord  Lilburne.    He  glanced 


134  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

at   it   in    surprise,    opened,    and    read   as   follows,    in 
pencil :  — 

My  Lord,  —  I  knows  the  man  ;  take  caer  of  him  ;  he  is  as 

big  a  roge  as  ever  stept ;  he  was  transported  some  three  year 

back,  and  unless  his  time  has  been  shortened  by  the  Home, 

he  's  absent  without  leve.     We  used  to  call  him  Dashing  Jerry. 

That  ere  youngster  we  went  arter,  by  Mr.  Bofort's  wish,  was 

a  pal  of  his.     Scuze  the  liberty  I  take, 

J.  Sharp. 

While  Lord  Lilburne  held  this  effusion  to  the  candle, 
and  spelled  his  way  through  it,  Captain  Smith,  recovering 
his  self-composure ,  thus  proceeded :  — 

"Imposture,  my  lord!  imposture!  I  really  don't 
understand.  Your  lordship  really  seems  so  suspicious 
that  it  is  quite  uncomfortable.  I  am  sure  it  is  all  the 
same  to  me ;  and  if  Mr.  Beaufort  does  not  think  proper 
to  see  me  himself,  why,  I  'd  best  make  my  bow." 

And  Captain  Smith  rose. 

"  Stay  a  moment,  sir.  What  Mr.  Beaufort  may  yet 
do,  I  cannot  say;  but  I  know  this,  you  stand  charged  of 
a  very  grave  offence,  and  if  your  witness  or  witnesses  — 
you  may  have  fifty  for  what  I  care  —  are  equally  guilty, 
so  much  the  worse  for  them." 

"  My  lord,  I  really  don't  comprehend." 

"  Then  I  will  be  more  plain.  I  accuse  you  of  devising 
an  infamous  falsehood  for  the  purpose  of  extorting  money. 
Let  your  witnesses  appear  in  court,  and  I  promise  that 
you,  they,  and  the  young  man,  Mr.  Morton,  whose  claim 
tliey  set  up,  shall  bo  indicted  for  conspiracy, —  conspiracy, 
if  accompanied  (as  in  the  case  of  your  witnesses)  with 
perjury  of  the  blackest  dye.  Mr.  Smith,  I  know  you; 
and,  before  ten  o'clock  to-morrow,  I  shall  know  also  if 
you  had  his  Majesty's  leave  to  quit  the  colonies!  Ah! 
I  am  plain  enough  now,  I  see. " 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  135 

And  Lord  Lilbiirne  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair, 
and  coldly  contemplated  the  white  face  and  dismayed 
expression  of  the  crestfallen  captain.  That  most  worthy 
person,  after  a  pause  of  confusion,  amaze,  and  fear,  mads 
an  involuntary  stride,  with  a  menacing  gesture,  towards 
Lilhurne;  the  peer  quietly  placed  his  hand  on  the  bell. 

"  One  moment  more,"  said  the  latter;  "  if  I  ring  this 
bell,  it  is  to  place  you  in  custody.  Let  Mr.  Beaufort 
but  see  you  here  once  again, — nay,  let  him  but  hear 
another  word  of  this  pretended  lawsuit,  —  and  you 
return  to  the  colonies.  Pshaw!  Frown  not  at  me,  sir! 
A  r>ow  Street  officer  is  in  the  hall.  Begone!  — no,  stop 
one  moment,  and  take  a  lesson  in  life.  Never  again 
attempt  to  threaten  people  of  property  and  station. 
Around  every  rich  man  is  a  wall,  —  better  not  run  your 
head  against  it." 

"  But  I  swear  solemnly,"  cried  the  knave,  with  an 
emphasis  so  startling  that  it  carried  with  it  the  appear- 
ance of  truth,  "  that  the  marriage  did  take  place." 

"  And  I  say,  no  less  solemnly,  that  any  one  who 
swears  it  in  a  court  of  law  shall  be  prosecuted  for  perjury ! 
Bah!  you  are  a  sorry  rogue,  after  all!  " 

And  with  an  air  of  supreme  and  half-compassionate 
contempt.  Lord  Lilburne  turned  away  and  stirred  the 
fire.  Captain  Smith  muttered  and  fumbled  a  moment 
with  his  gloves,  then  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  sneaked 
out. 

That  night  Lord  Lilburne  again  received  his  friends, 
and  amongst  his  guests  came  Va\idemont.  Lilburne  was 
one  vvho  liked  the  study  of  character,  especially  the 
character  of  men  wrestling  against  the  world.  Wholly 
free  from  every  species  of  ambition,  he  seemed  to  reconcile 
himself  to  his  apathy  by  examining  into  the  disquietude, 
the  mortification,  the  heart's  wear  and  tear,  which  are 


136  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

the  lot  of  the  ambitious.  Like  the  spider  in  his  hole, 
he  watched  with  hungry  pleasure  the  flies  struggling  in 
the  web,  through  whose  slimy  labyrinth  he  wallted  with 
an  easy  safety.  Perhaps  one  reason  why  he  loved 
gaming  was  less  from  the  joy  of  winning  than  the 
philosophical  complacency  with  which  he  feasted  on  the 
emotions  of  those  who  lost,  —  always  serene,  and,  except, 
in  debauch,  always  passionless,  —  Majendie,  tracing  the 
experiments  of  science  in  the  agonies  of  some  tortured 
dog,  could  not  be  more  wrapt  in  the  science  and  more 
indifferent  to  the  dog  than  Lord  Lilburne  ruining  a 
victim  in  the  analysis  of  human  passions,  —  stoical  in 
the  writhings  of  the  wretch  whom  he  tranquilly  dissected. 
He  wished  to  win  money  of  Vaudemont;  to  ruin  this 
man  who  presumed  to  be  more  generous  than  other 
people ;  to  see  a  bold  adventurer  submitted  to  the  wheel 
of  the  fortune  which  reigns  in  a  pack  of  cards,  —  and 
all ,  of  course ,  without  the  least  hate  to  the  man  whom 
he  then  saw  for  the  first  time.  On  the  contrary,  he  felt 
a  respect  for  Vaudemont.  Like  most  worldly  men, 
Lord  Lilburne  was  prepossessed  in  favor  of  those  who 
seek  to  rise  in  life;  and,  like  men  who  have  excelled 
in  manly  and  athletic  exercises,  he  was  also  prepossessed 
in  favor  of  those  who  appeared  fitted  for  the  same 
success. 

Liancourt  took  aside  his  friend,  aa  Lord  Lilburne  was 
talking  with  his  other  guests:  — 

"  I  need  not  caution  you,  who  never  play,  not  to 
commit  yourself  to  Lord  Lilburne 's  tender  mercies: 
remember,  he   is  an  admirable  player." 

"  Nay ,"  answered  Vaudemont,  "  I  want  to  know  this 
man ;  I  have  reasons,  which  alone  induce  me  to  enter 
his  house.  I  can  afford  to  venture  something,  because  I 
wish  to  see  if  I  can  gain  something  for  one  dear  to  me. 


NIGHT   AND   JfORNING.  137 

And  for  the  rest,"  he  muttered,  "  T  knoAV  him  too  well 
not  to  be  on  my  guard."  With  that  he  joined  Lord 
Lilburne's  group,  and  accepted  the  invitation  to  the 
card-table.  At  supper,  Vauderaont  conversed  more  than 
was  habitual  to  him ;  he  especially  addressed  himself  to 
his  host,  and  listened,  with  great  attention,  to  Lilburne's 
caustic  comments  upon  every  topic  successively  started. 
And  whether  it  was  the  art  of  De  Vau<lemont,  or  from 
an  interest  that  Lord  Lilburne  took  in  studying  what 
was  to  him  a  new  character,  or  whether  that,  both  men 
excelling  peculiarly  in  all  masculine  accomplishments, 
their  conversation  was  of  a  nature  that  was  more  attractive 
to  themselves  than  to  others,  it  so  happened,  that  they 
were  still  talking  while  the  daylight  already  peered 
through   the  window-curtains. 

"And  I  have  outstayed  all  your  giiests,"  said  De 
Vaudemont,  glancing  round  the  emptied  room. 

"  It  is  the  best  compliment  you  could  pay  me. 
Another  night  we  can  enliven  our  tete-a-tete  with 
ecarte;  though  at  your  age,  and  with  your  appearance, 
I  am  surprised,  Monsieur  de  Vaudemont,  that  you  are 
fond  of  play :  I  should  have  thought  that  it  was  not  in 
a  pack  of  cards  that  you  looked  for  hearts.  But  perhaps 
you  are  blase  betimes  of  the  beau  sexe. " 

"  Yet  your  lordship's  devotion  to  it  is,  perhaps,  as 
great  now  as  ever  1  " 

"  Mine  1  —  no,  not  as  ever.  To  diflferent  ages  different 
degrees.  At  your  age  I  wooed ;  at  mine  I  purchase, — • 
the  better  plan  of  the  two :  it  does  not  take  up  half  so 
much  time." 

"Your  marriage,  I  think.  Lord  Lilburne,  was  not 
blessed  with  children.  Perhaps  sometimes  you  feel  the 
want  of  them  1  " 

"  If  I  did,  I  could  have  them  by  the  dozen.      Other 


133  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

ladies  have  been  more  generous  in  that  department  than 
the  Late  Lady  Lilburne,  Heaven  rest  her!  " 

"  And,"  said  Vaudemont,  fixing  his  eyes  with  some 
earnestness  on  his  host,  "  if  you  were  really  persuaded 
that  you  had  a  child,  or  perhaps  a  grandchild,  —  the 
mother  one  whom  you  loved  in  your  first  youth, — a 
child  affectionate,  beautiful,  and  especially  needing  your 
care  and  protection,  would  you  not  suffer  that  child, 
though  illegitimate,  to  supply  to  you  the  want  of  filial 
affection  1  " 

"  Filial  affection,  mon  cher  !  "  repeated  Lord  Lilburne, 
"needing  my  care  and  protection!  Pshaw!  In  other 
words,  would  I  give  board  and  lodging  to  some  young 
vagabond  who  was  good  enough  to  say  he  was  son  to 
Lord  Lilburne?" 

"  But  if  you  were  convinced  that  the  claimant  were 
your  son,  or  perhaps  your  daughter,  —  a  tenderer  name 
of  the  two,  and  a  more  helpless  claimant?  " 

"  My  dear  Monsieur  de  Vaudemont,  you  are  doubtless 
a  man  of  gallantry  and  of  the  world.  If  the  children 
whom  the  law  forces  on  one  are,  nine  times  out  of 
ten,  such  damnable  plagues,  judge  if  one  would  father 
those  whom  the  law  permits  us  to  disown!  Natural 
children  are  the  pariahs  of  the  world,  and  I  —  am  one  of 
the  Brahmins." 

"But,"  persisted  Vaudemont,  "forgive  me  if  I  press 
the  question  farther.  Perhaps  T  seek  from  your  wisdom 
a  guide  to  my  own  conduct:  suppose  then,  a  man  had 
loved,  had  wronged,  the  motlier;  suppose  that  in  the 
child  he  saw  one  who,  without  his  aid,  might  be  exposed 
to  every  curse  with  which  the  pariahs  (true,  the  pariahs  !) 
of  tlie  world  are  too  often  visited,  and  who  ivith  his  aid 
might  become,  as  age  advanced,  his  companion,  his 
nurse,  his  comforter —  " 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  139 

"  Tush!  "  interrupted  Lilburne,  with  some  impatience  ; 
"  I  know  not  how  our  conversation  fell  on  such  a  topic,  — 
but  if  you  really  ask  my  opinion  in  reference  to  any  case 
in  practical  life,  you  shall  have  it.  Look  you,  then, 
Monsieur  de  Vaudemont,  no  man  has  studied  the  art  of 
happiness  more  than  I  have;  and  I  will  tell  you  the 
great  secret,  —  have  as  few  ties  as  possible.  Nurse!  — 
pooh!  you  or  I  could  hire  one  by  the  week  a  thousand 
times  more  useful  and  careful  than  a  bore  of  a  child. 
Comforter!  — a  man  of  mind  never  wants  comfort.  And 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  sorrow  while  we  have  health 
and  money,  and  don't  care  a  straw  for  anybody  in  the 
world.  If  you  choose  to  love  people,  their  health  and 
circumstances,  if  either  go  wrong,  can  fret  you:  that 
opens  many  avenues  to  pain.  Never  live  alone,  but 
always /lyeZ  alone.  You  think  this  unamiable  :  possibly. 
I  am  no  hypocrite,  and  for  my  part,  1  never  aflfect  to  be 
anything  but  what  1  am  —  John  Lilburne. " 

As  the  peer  thus  spoke,  Vaudemont,  leaning  against 
the  door,  contemplated  him  with  a  strange  mixture  of 
interest  and  disgust.  "  And  John  Lilburne  is  thought  a 
great  man,  and  William  Gawtrey  was  a  great  rogue. 
You  don't  conceal  your  heart?  — no,  I  understand. 
Wealth  and  power  have  no  need  of  hypocrisy :  you  are 
the  man  of  vice,  —  Gawtrey,  the  man  of  crime.  You 
never  sin  against  the  law,  —  he  was  a  felon  by  his  trade. 
And  the  felon  saved  from  vice  the  child,  and  from  want 
the  grandchild  (your  flesh  and  blood)  whom  you  disown: 
which  will  Heaven  consider  the  worse  man?  No,  poor 
Eanny!  I  see  I  am  wrong.  If  he  would  own  you,  I 
Avould  not  give  you  up  to  the  ice  of  such  a  soul:  better 
the  blind  man  than  the  dead  heart!  " 

"  Well,  Lord  Lilburne,"  said  De  Vaudemont,  aloud, 
shaking  off  his  reverie, "  I  must  own  that  your  philosophy 


140  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

seems  to  me  the  wisest  for  yourself.      For  a  poor  man  it 
might  be  different,  —  the  poor  need  affection." 

"  Ay,  the  poor,  certainly,"  said  Lord  Lilburne,  with 
an  air  of  patronizing  candor. 

"  And  I  will  own  farther,"  continued  De  Vaudemont, 
"  that  I  have  willingly  lost  my  money  in  return  for  the 
instruction  I  have  received  in  hearing  you  converse." 

"You  are  kind:  come  and  take  your  revenge  next 
Thursday.     Adieu." 

As  Lord  Lilburne  undressed,  and  his  valet  attended 
him,  he  said  to  that  worthy  functionary,  — 

"  So  you  have  not  been  able  to  make  out  the  name  of 
the  stranger,  —  the  new  lodger  you  tell  me  of  1  " 

"  No,  my  lord.  They  only  say  he  is  a  very  fine-looking 
man." 

"  You  have  not  seen  him  ?  " 

"No,  my  lord.     What  do  you  wish  me  now  to  do? " 

"Humph!  Nothing  at  this  moment!  you  manage 
things  so  badly,  you  might  get  me  into  a  scrape.  I 
never  do  anything  which  the  law,  or  the  police,  or  even 
the  newspapers,  can  get  hold  of.  I  must  think  of  some 
other  way,  —  humph!  I  never  give  up  what  I  once 
commence,  and  I  never  fail  in  what  I  undertake!  If 
life  had  l)een  worth  what  fools  trouble  it  with,  —  business 
and  ambition,  —  I  suppose  I  should  have  been  a  great 
man  with  a  very  bad  liver  —  ha!  ha!  I,  alone,  of  all 
the  world,  ever  found  out  what  the  world  was  good  for. 
Draw  the  curtains,  Dykeman." 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  141 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Org.  —  Welcome  thou  ice  that  sitt'st  about  his  heart ! 
No  heat  can  ever  thaw  thee  ! 

FoiiD :  Broken  Heart. 

Nearch.  —  Honorable  infamy !  —  Ibid. 

Amyc.  —  Her  tenderness  hath  yet  deserved  no  rigor. 
So  to  be  crossed  by  fate  ! 

Arm.  —  You  misapply,  sir, 
With  favor  let  me  speak  it,  what  Apollo 
Hath  clouded  in  dim  sense ! 

Ibid. 

If  Vaudemont  had  fancied  that,  considering  the  age  and 
poverty  of  Simon,  it  Avas  his  duty  to  see  whether  Fanny's 
not  more  legal,  but  more  natural  protector  were,  indeed, 
the  unredeemed  and  unmalleable  egotist  which  Gawtrey 
had  painted  him,  the  conversation  of  one  night  was  suffi- 
cient to  make  him  abandon  forever  the  notion  of  advanc- 
ing her  claims  upon  Lord  Lilburne.  But  Philip  had 
another  motive  in  continuing  his  acquaintance  with  that 
personage.  The  sight  of  his  motlier's  grave  had  recalled 
to  him  the  image  of  that  lost  brother  over  whom  he  had 
vowed  to  watch.  And,  despite  the  deep  sense  of  wronged 
affection  with  which  he  yet  remembered  the  cruel  letter 
that  had  contained  the  last  tidings  of  Sidney,  Philip's 
heart  climg  with  undying  fondness  to  that  fair  shape 
associated  with  all  the  happy  recollections  of  childhood; 
and  his  conscience  as  well  as  his  love  asked  him,  each 
time  that  he  passed  the  churchyard,  "  Will  you  make  no 
effort  to  obey  that  last  prayer  of  the  mother  who  con- 
signed   her   darling    to    your    charge  ?  "      Perhaps,    had 


142  KIGIIT  AND   MORNING. 

Philip  been  in  want,  or  had  the  name  he  now  bore  been 
sullied  by  his  conduct,  he  might  have  shrunk  from  seek- 
ing one  whom  he  might  injure,  but  could  not  serve.    But 
tliough  not  rich,  he  had  more  than  enough  for  tastes  as 
Iiardy  and  simple  as  any  to  which  soldier  of  fortune  ever 
limited  his  desires.     And  he  tliought,  with  a  sentiment 
of  just  and  noble  pride,  that  the  name  which  Eugenie 
had   forced   upon   liim   had   been  borne  spotless  as  the 
ermine  through  the  trials  and  vicissitudes  he  had  passed 
since  he  had  assumed  it.     Sidney  could  give  him  nothing, 
and  therefore  it  was  his  duty  to  seek  Sidney  out.     I^ow, 
he  had  always  believed  in  his  heart  that  the  Beauforts 
were  acquainted  with  a  secret  which  he  more  and  more 
pined    to    penetrate.      He    would,    for   Sidney's   sake, 
smother  his  hate  to  the  Beauforts;  he  would  not  reject 
their  acquaintance  if  thrown  in  his  Avay ;  nay,  secure  in 
his  change  of  name  and  his  altered  features,  from  all  sus- 
picion on  their  part,  he  would  seek  that  acquaintance  in 
order  to  find  his  brother  and  fulfil  Catherine's  last  com- 
mands.    His  intercourse  with  Lilburne  would  necessarily 
bring   him  easily  into   contact  with   Lilburne's   family. 
And   in  this  thought  he  did  not   reject  the    invitations 
pressed  on   him.      He  felt,    too,    a    dark    and  absorbing 
interest   in   examining  a  man  who  was  in   himself   the 
incarnation  of  the  Avorld,  —  the  world  of  art,  the  world  as 
the  preacher  paints  it,  the  hollow,  sensual,  sharp-witted, 
self-wrapped  world  ,  the  World  that  is  all  for  this  life, 
and  til  inks  of  no  future  and  no  God! 

Lord  Lilburne  was,  indeed,  a  study  for  deep  con- 
templation,—  a  study  to  perplex  the  ordinary  thinker, 
and  task  to  the  utmost  the  analysis  of  more  profound 
reflection.  William  Gawtrey  had  possessed  no  common 
talents;  he  had  discovered  that  his  life  had  been  one 
mistake:  Lord  Lilburne's  intellect  was  far  keener  than 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  143 

Gawtrey's,  and  he  had  never  made,  and  if  he  had  lived 
to  the  age  of  Old  Parr  never  would  have  made,  a  similar 
discovery.  He  never  wrestled  against  a  law,  though  he 
slipped  through  all  laws!  And  he  knew  no  remorse,  for 
he  knew  no  fear.  Lord  Lilburne  had  married  early, 
and  long  survived  a  lady  of  fortune,  the  daugliter  of  the 
then  Premier, —  the  best  match,  in  fact,  of  his  day. 
And  for  one  very  brief  period  of  his  life  he  had  suffered 
himself  to  enter  into  the  field  of  politics, —  the  only 
ambition  common  with  men  of  equal  rank.  He  showed 
talents  that  might  have  raised  one  so  gifted  by  circum- 
stance to  any  height,  and  then  retired  at  once  into  his 
old  habits  and  old  system  of  pleasure.  "  I  wished  to 
try, "  said  he  once,  "  if  fame  was  worth  one  headache, 
and  I  have  convinced  myself  that  the  man  who  can  sacrifice 
the  bone  in  his  mouth  to  the  shadow  of  the  bone  in  the 
water  is  a  fool."  From  that  time  he  never  attended 
the  House  of  Lords,  and  declared  himself  of  no  political 
opinions  one  way  or  the  other.  Nevertheless,  the  world 
had  a  general  belief  in  his  powers,  and  Vaudemont 
reluctantly  subscribed  to  the  world's  verdict.  Yet  he 
had  done  nothing,  he  liad  read  but  little,  he  laughed  at 
the  world  to  its  face,  —  and  that  last  was,  after  all,  the 
main  secret  of  his  ascendency  over  those  who  were,  drawn 
into  his  circle.  That  contempt  of  the  world  placed  the 
world  at  his  feet.  His  sardonic  and  polished  indiffer- 
ence; his  professed  code  that  there  was  no  life  worth 
caring  for  but  his  own  life ;  his  exemption  from  all  cant, 
prejudice,  and  disguise;  the  frigid  lubricity  with  which 
he  gliiled  out  of  the  grasp  of  the  conventional,  wheneA^er 
it  so  pleased  him,  without  shocking  the  decorums  whose 
sense  is  in  their  ear,  and  who  are  not  roused  by  the  deed 
but  by  the  noise,  —  all  this  had  in  it  the  marrow  and 
essence    of   a    system    triumphant   with  the   vulgar;  for 


144  NIGHT   AND   MOr.NIXG. 

little  minds  give  importance  to  the  man  who  gives 
importance  to  nothing.  Lord  Lilburne's  authority,  not  in 
matters  of  taste  alone,  but  in  those  which  the  world  calls 
judgment  and  common-sense,  was  regarded  as  an  oracle. 
He  cared  not  a  straw  for  the  ordinary  baubles  that  attract 
his  order ;  he  had  refused  both  an  earldom  and  the  garter, 
and  this  was  often  quoted  in  his  honor.  But  you  only 
try  a  man's  virtue  when  you  offer  him  something  that  he 
covets.  The  earldom  and  the  garter  were  to  Lord  Lil- 
bume  no  more  tempting  inducements  than  a  doll  or  a 
skipping-rope ;  had  you  offered  him  an  infallible  cure  for 
the  gout,  or  an  antidote  against  old  age,  you  might  have 
hired  him,  as  your  lackey,  on  your  own  terms.  Lord 
Lilburne's  next  heir  was  the  son  of  his  only  brother,  a 
person  entirely  dependent  on  his  uncle.  Lord  Lilburne 
allowed  him  £1000  a  year,  and  kept  him  always  abroad 
in  a  diplomatic  situation.  He  looked  upon  his  successor 
as  a  man  who  wanted  power,  but  not  inclination,  to 
become  his  assassin. 

Though  he  lived  sumptuously  and  grudged  himself 
nothing.  Lord  Lilburne  was  far  from  an  extravagant 
man:  he  might,  indeed,  be  considered  close;  for  he 
knew  how  much  of  comfort  and  consideration  he  owed 
to  his  money,  and  valued  it  accordingly,  —  he  knew  the 
best  speculations  and  the  best  investments.  If  he  took 
f-'hares  in  an  American  canal,  you  might  be  sure  that  the 
shares  would  soon  be  double  in  value ;  if  he  purchased 
an  estate,  you  might  be  certain  it  was  a  bargain.  This 
pecuniary  tact  and  success  necessarily  augmented  his 
fame  for  wisdom. 

He  had  been  in  early  life  a  successful  gambler,  and 
some  suspicions  of  his  fair  play  had  been  noised  abroad; 
but,  as  has  been  recently  seen  in  the  instance  of  a  man 
of   rank  equal  to  Lilburne's,  though,  perhaps,  of   less 


NIGHT   AND   MOKNING.  145 

acute,  if  more  cultivated  intellect,  it  is  long  before  the 
pigeon  will  turn  roiuid  upon  a  falcon  of  breed  and  mettle. 
The  rumors,  indeed,  were  so  vague  as  to  carry  with 
them  no  weight.  During  the  middle  of  his  career, 
when  in  the  full  flush  of  health  and  fortune,  he  had 
renounced  the  gaming-table.  Of  late  years,  as  advancing 
age  made  time  more  heavy,  he  had  resumed  the  resource, 
and  with  all  his  former  good  luck.  The  money-market, 
the  table,  the  sex,  constituted  the  other  occupations  and 
amusements  with  which  Lord  Lilburne  filled  up  his  rosy 
leisure. 

Another  way  by  which  this  man  had  acquired  reputa- 
tion for  ability  was  this:  he  never  pretended  to  any 
branch  of  knowledge  of  which  he  was  ignorant,  any 
more  than  to  any  virtue  in  which  he  was  deficient. 
Honesty  itself  was  never  more  free  from  quackery  or 
deception  than  was  this  embodied  and  walking  vice. 
If  the  world  chose  to  esteem  him,  he  did  not  buy 
its  opinion  by  imposture.  No  man  ever  saw  Lord 
Lilburne's  name  in  a  public  subscription,  whether  for  a 
new  church  or  a  Bible  Society  or  a  distressed  family; 
no  man  ever  heard  of  his  doing  one  generous,  benevo- 
lent, or  kindly  action ;  no  man  was  ever  startled  by  one 
philanthropic,  pious,  or  amiable  sentiment  from  those 
mocking  lips.  Yet,  in  spite  of  all  this,  John,  Lord 
Lilburne  was  not  only  esteemed  but  liked  by  the  world, 
and  set  up  in  the  chair  of  its  Rhadamanthuses.  In  a 
word,  he  seemed  to  Vaudemont,  and  he  was  so  in  reality, 
a  brilliant  example  of  the  might  of  circumstance,  —  an 
instance  of  what  may  be  done  in  the  way  of  reputation 
and  influence  by  a  rich,  well-born  man,  to  whom  the 
will  a  kingdom  is.  A  little  of  genius,  and  Lord  Lil- 
burne would  have  made  his  vices  notorious  and  his 
deficiencies    glaring;  a    little    of   heart,  and  his  habits 

VOL.  II.  — 10 


146  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

would  have  led  him  into  countless  follies  and  discredit- 
able scrapes.  It  was  the  lead  and  the  stone  that  he 
carried  about  him  that  preserved  his  equilibrium,  no 
matter  which  way  the  breeze  blew.  But  all  his  quali- 
ties, positive  or  negative,  would  have  availed  him 
nothing  without  that  position  which  enabled  him  to 
take  his  ease  in  that  inn,  the  world,  — which  presented, 
to  every  detection  of  his  want  of  intrinsic  nobleness, 
the  irreproachable  respectability  of  a  high  name,  a 
splendid  mansion,  and  a  rent-roll  without  a  flaw. 
Vaudemont  drew  comparisons  between  Lilburne  and 
Gawtrey,  and  he  comprehended  at  last  why  one  was  a 
low  rascal  and  the  other  a  great  man. 

Although  it  was  but  a  few  days  after  their  first  intro- 
duction to  each  other,  Vaudemont  had  been  twice  to 
Lord  Lilburne's,  and  their  acquaintance  was  already  on 
an  easy  footing,  when  one  afternoon,  as  the  former  was 

riding  through  the  streets  towards  H ,  he  met  the 

peer,  mounted  on  a  stout  cob,  which,  from  its  symmet- 
rical strength,  pure  English  breed,  and  exquisite  groom- 
ing, showed  something  of  those  sporting  tastes  for  which, 
in  earlier  life,  Lord  Lilburne  had  been  noted. 

"  Why,  Monsieur  de  Vaudemont,  what  brings  you 
to  this  part  of  the  town  ?  —  curiosity  and  the  desire  to 
explore  1  " 

"That  might  be  natural  enough  in  me;  but  you,  who 
know  London  so  well,  — ratlier  what  brings  1/011  here?  " 

"  Why,  I  am  returned  from  a  long  ride.  I  have  had 
symptoms  of  a  fit  of  the  gout,  and  been  trying  to  keep 
it  olf  by  exercise.  1  have  been  to  a  cottage  that  belongs 
to  me,  some  miles  from  town,  —  a  pretty  place  enough 
by  the  way :  you  must  come  and  see  me  there  next 
month.  I  shall  fill  the  house  for  a  battue!  I  have 
some  tolerable  covers,  —  you  are  a  good  shot,  I  suppose  1  " 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  147 

"  I  have  not  practised,  except  with  a  rifle,  for  some 
years. " 

"That's  a  pity;  for  as  I  think  a  week's  shooting 
once  a  year  quite  enough,  I  fear  that  your  visit  to  me 
at  Fernside  may  not  be  sufficiently  long  to  put  your 
hand  in." 

"Fernside!  " 

"  Yes ;  is  the  name  familiar  to  you  1  " 

"  I  think  I  have  heard  it  before.  Did  your  lordship 
purchase  or  inherit  it  ?  " 

"  I  bought  it  of  my  brother-in-law.  It  belonged  to 
his  brother, — a  gay,  wild  sort  of  fellow,  who  broke 
his  neck  over  a  six-barred  gate :  through  that  gate  my 
friend  Robert  walked  the  same  day  into  a  very  fine 
estate !  " 

"  I  have  heard  so.  The  late  Mr.  Beaufort,  then,  left 
no  cliildren?  " 

"Yes;  two.  But  they  came  into  the  world  in  the 
primitive  way  in  which  Mr.  Owen  wishes  us  all  to 
come, — too  naturally  for  the  present  state  of  society, 
and  IVIr.  Owen's  parallelogram  was  not  ready  for  them. 
By  the  way,  one  of  them  disappeared  at  Paris:  you  never 
met  with  him,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Under  what  name  1  " 

"Morton." 

"  Morton !  —  hem !     What  Christian  name  ?  " 

"Philip." 

"  Philip!  —  no.  But  did  Mr.  Beaufort  do  nothing  for 
the  young  men  ?  I  think  I  have  heard  somewhere  that 
he  took  compassion  on  one  of  them." 

"  Have  you?  Ah,  my  brother-in-law  is  precisely  one 
of  those  excellent  men  of  whom  the  world  always 
speaks  well.  No;  he  would  very  willingly  have  served 
either  or  both  the  boys,  but  the  mother  refused  all  his 


148  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

overtures  and  went  to  law,  I  fancy.  The  elder  of  these 
bastards  turned  out  a  sad  fellow,  and  the  younger,  —  I 
don't  know  exactly  where  he  is,  but  no  doubt  with  one 
of  his  mother's  relations.  You  seem  to  interest  your- 
self in  natural  children,  my  dear  Vaudemonf?  " 

■'  Perhaps  you  have  heard  that  people  have  doubted  if 
I  were  a  natural  son  1  " 

"  Ah !  I  understand  now.  But  are  you  going  1  —  I 
was  in  hopes  you  would  have  turned  back  my  way, 
and  —  " 

"  You  are  very  good;  but  I  have  a  particular  appoint- 
ment, and  I  am  now  too  late.  Good-morning,  Lord 
Lilburne." 

Sidney  with  one  of  his  mother's  relations!  Returned, 
perhaps  to  the  Mortons!  How  had  he  never  before 
chanced  on  a  conjecture  so  probable  1  He  would  go  at 
once !  —  that  very  night  he  would  go  to  the  house  from 
which  he  had  taken  his  brother.  At  least,  and  at  the 
worst,  they  might  give  him  some  clew. 

Buoyed  with  this  hope  and  this  resolve,  he  rode  hastily 

to    H ,  to  announce   to  Simon  and  Fanny  that  he 

should  not  return  to  them,  perhaps,  for  two  or  three 
days.  As  he  entered  the  suburb,  he  drew  up  by  the 
statuary  of  whom  he  had  purchased  his  mother's 
gravestone. 

The  artist  of  the  melancholy  trade  was  at  work  in  his 
yard. 

"  Ho!  there!  "  said  Vaudemont,  looking  over  the  low 
railing;  "  is  the  tomb  I  have  ordered  nearly  finished?  " 

"  Why,  sir,  as  you  were  so  anxious  for  despatch,  and 
as  it  would  take  a  long  time  to  get  a  new  one  ready,  I 
thought  of  giving  you  this,  which  is  finished  all  but 
the  inscription.  It  was  meant  for  Miss  Deborah 
Primme;  but  her  nephew  and  heir  called  on  me  yester- 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  149 

day  to  say,  that  as  the  poor  lady  died  worth  less  by 
£5000  than  he  had  expected,  he  thought  a  handsome 
wooden  tomb  would  do  as  well,  if  I  could  get  rid  of 
this  for  him.  It  is  a  beauty,  sir.  It  will  look  so 
cheerful  —  " 

"  Well,  that  will  do:  and  you  can  place  it  now  where 
I  told  you. " 

"  In  three  days,  sir. " 

"So  be  it."  And  he  rode  on,  muttering,  "Fanny, 
your  pious  wish  will  be  fulfilled.  But  flowers,  —  will 
they  suit  that  stone  1  " 

He  put  up  his  horse,  and  walked  through  the  lane  to 
Simon's. 

As  he  approached  the  house,  he  saw  Fanny's  bright 
eyes  at  the  window.  She  was  watching  his  return. 
She  hastened  to  open  the  door  to  him,  and  the  world's 
wanderer  felt  what  music  there  is  in  the  footstep,  what 
summer  there  is  in  the  smile,  of  ivelcome  ! 

"My  dear  Fanny,"  he  said,  affected  by  her  joyous 
greeting,  "  it  makes  my  heart  warm  to  see  you.  I  have 
brought  you  a  present  from  town.  When  I  was  a  boy, 
I  remember  that  my  poor  mother  was  fond  of  singing, 
some  simple  songs,  which  often,  somehow  or  other, 
come  back  to  me  when  I  see  and  hear  you.  I  fancy 
you  would  understand  and  like  them  as  well  at  least  as 
I  do,  — for  Heaven  knows  [he  added  to  himself]  my  ear 
is  dull  enough  generally  to  the  jingle  of  rhyme."  And 
he  placed  in  her  hands  a  little  volume  of  those  exquisite 
songs  in  which  Burns  has  set  nature  to  music. 

"  Oh!  you  are  so  kind,  brother,"  said  Fanny,  with 
tears  swimming  in  her  eyes,  and  she  kissed  the  book. 

After  their  simple  meal,  Vaudemont  broke  to  Fanny 
and  Simon  the  intelligence  of  his  intended  departure 
for  a  few  days.     Simon  heard  it  with  the  silent  apathy 


150  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

into  which,  except  on  rare  occasions,  his  life  had  settled. 
But  Fanny  turned  away  her  face  and  wept, 

"  It  is  but  for  a  day  or  two,  Fanny." 

"  An  hour  is  very,  very  long  sometimes,"  said  the  girl, 
shaking  her  head  mournfully. 

"  Come,  I  have  a  little  time  yet  left,  and  the  air  is 
mild,  you  have  not  been  out  to-day,  shall  we  walk  —  " 

"  Hem!  "  interrupted  Simon,  clearing  his  throat,  and 
seeming  to  start  into  sudden  animation ;  "  had  not  you 
better  settle  the  board  and  lodging  before  you  go  ?  " 

"Oh,  grandfather!"  cried  Fanny,  springing  to  her 
feet,  with  such  a  blush  upon  her  face. 

"  jSTay,  child,"  said  Vaudemont,  laughingly;  "your 
grandfather  only  anticipates  me.  But  do  not  talk  of 
board  and  lodging;  Fanny  is  as  a  sister  to  me,  and 
our  purse  is  in  common." 

"I  should  like  to  feel  a  sovereign,  just  to  feel  it," 
muttered  Simon,  in  a  sort  of  apologetic  tone  that  was 
really  pathetic;  and  as  Vaudemont  scattered  some  coins 
on  the  table,  the  old  man  clawed  them  up,  chuckling 
and  talking  to  himself,  and,  rising  with  great  alacrity, 
hobbled  out  of  the  room  like  a  raven  carrying  some 
cunning  theft  to  its  hiding-place. 

This  was  so  amusing  to  Vaudemont  that  he  burst  out 
fairly  into  an  incontrollable  laughter.  Fanny  looked 
at  him,  humbled  and  wondering,  for  some  moments, 
and  then,  creeping  to  him,  put  her  hand  gently  on  his 
arm,  and  said,  — 

"Don't  laugh,  —  it  pains  me.  It  was  not  nice  in 
grandpapa;  but  —  but,  it  does  not  mean  anything.  It 
—  it  —  don't  laugh  —  Fanny  feels  so  sad!  " 

"Well,  you  are  right.  Come,  put  on  your  bonnet, 
we  will  go  out." 

Fanny  obeyed;  but  with  less  ready  delight  than  usual. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  151 

And  they  took  their  way  through  lanes  over  which  hung, 
still  iu  the  cool  air,  the  leaves  of  the  yellow  autumn. 

Fanny  was  the  first  to  break  silence, 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  timidly,  "  that  people  here 
think  me  very  silly  1  —  do  you  think  so  too  ?  " 

Vaudemont  was  startled  by  the  simplicity  of  the 
question,  and  hesitated.  Fanny  looked  up  in  his  dark 
face  anxiously  and  inquiringly. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  you  don't  answer?  " 

"  My  dear  Fanny,  there  are  some  things  in  which  I 
could  wish  you  less  childlike  and,  perhaps,  less  charm- 
ing.    Those  strange  snatches  of  song,  for  instance  —  " 

"  What!  do  you  not  like  me  to  sing?  It  is  my  way 
of  talking. " 

"Yes;  sing,  pretty  one!  But  sing  something  that 
we  can  understand,  —  sing  the  songs  I  have  given  you, 
if  you  will.  And  now,  may  I  ask  why  you  put  to  me 
that  question  1  " 

"  I  have  forgotten,"  said  Fanny,  absently,  and  looking 
down. 

Now,  at  that  instant,  as  Philip  Vaudemont  bent  over 
the  exceeding  sweetness  of  that  young  face,  a  sudden 
thrill  shot  through  his  heart,  and  he  too  became  silent 
and  lost  in  thought.  Was  it  possible  that  there  could 
creep  into  his  breast  a  wilder  afifection  for  this  creature 
than  that  of  tenderness  and  pity  ?  He  was  startled  as 
the  idea  crossed  him.  He  shrunk  from  it  as  a  profana- 
tion, as  a  crime,  as  a  frenzy.  He,  with  his  fate  so 
uncertain  and  checkered,  —  he  to  link  himself  with  one 
so  helpless;  he  to  debase  the  very  poetry  that  clung  to 
the  mental  temperament  of  this  pure  being,  with  the 
feelings  which  every  fair  face  may  awaken  to  every 
coarse  heart,  — to  love  Fanny!  No,  it  was  impossible! 
For  what  could  he  love  in  her  but  beauty,  which  the 


152  NIGHT   AND   MOKNING, 

very  spirit  had  forgotten  to  guard  ?  And  she,  —  conld 
she  even  know  what  love  was?  He  despised  himself 
for  even  admitting  such  a  thought;  and,  with  that  iron 
and  hardy  vigor  which  belonged  to  his  mind,  resolved 
to  watch  closely  against  every  fancy  that  would  pass  the 
fairy  boundary  which  separated  Fanny  from  the  world 
of  women. 

He  was  roused  from  this  self-commune  by  an  abrupt 
exclamation  from  his  companion. 

"  Oh !  I  recollect  now,  why  I  asked  you  that  ques- 
tion. There  is  one  thing  that  always  puzzles  me,  —  I 
want  you  to  explain  it.  Why  does  everything  in  life 
depend  upon  money  ?  You  see  even  my  poor  grand- 
father forgot  how  good  you  are  to  us  both,  when  —  when 
—  ah!  I  don't  understand:  it  pains,  — it  puzzles  me!  " 

"  Fanny,  look  there,  —  no,  to  the  left,  —  you  see  that 
old  woman,  in  rags,  crawling  Avearily  along:  turn  now 
to  the  right,  —  you  see  that  fine  house  glancing  through 
the  trees,  with  a  carriage-and-four  at  the  gates?  The 
difference  between  that  old  woman  and  the  owner  of 
that  house  is  —  money ;  and  who  shall  blame  your 
grandfather  for  liking  money  ?  " 

Fanny  understood ;  and  while  the  wise  man  thus 
moralized,  the  girl,  whom  his  very  compassion  so  haugh- 
tily contemned,  moved  away  to  the  old  woman  to  do 
her  little  best  to  smooth  down  those  disparities  from 
which  wisdom  and  moralizing  never  deduct  a  grain! 
Vaudemont  felt  this  as  he  saw  her  glide  towards  the 
beggar;  but  wlien  she  came  bounding  back  to  him,  she 
had  forgotten  his  dislike  to  her  songs,  and  was  chanting, 
in  tlie  glee  of  the  heart  that  a  kind  act  had  made  glad, 
one  of  her  own  impromptu  melodies. 

Vaudemont  turned  away.  Poor  Fanny  had  uncon- 
sciously decided  his  self-conquest:  she  guessed  not  what 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  153 

passed,  within  liim,  but  she  suddenly  recollected  what 
he  had  said  to  her  about  her  songs,  and  fancied  him 
displeased. 

"Ah!  I  will  never  do  it  again.  Brother,  don't  turn 
away !  " 

"  But  we  must  go  home.  Hark !  the  clock  strikes 
seven,  —  I  have  no  time  to  lose.  And  you  will  promise 
me  never  to  stir  out  till  I  return  1  " 

"  I  shall  have  no  heart  to  stir  out,"  said  Fanny,  sadly  ; 
and  then,  in  a  more  cheerful  voice,  she  added,  "  and  I 
shall    sing  the  songs  you  like,  before   you   come  back 


again 


t  " 


154:  NIGHT   AND   MORNINa 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

Well  did  they  know  that  service  all  by  rote ; 

Some  singing  loud  as  if  they  had  complained, 
Some  with  their  notes  another  manner  feigned. 
Chaucer  :  The  Cuckoo  and  the  Nightingale,  modernized 
by  Wordsworth.  —  Horne's  edition. 

AxD  once  more,  sweet  Winandermere,  we  are  on  the 
banks  of  thy  happy  lake!  The  softest  ray  of  the  soft 
clear  sun  of  early  autumn  trembled  on  the  fresh  waters, 
and  glanced  through  the  leaves  of  the  limes  and  willows 
that  were  reflected  —  distinct  as  a  home  for  the  Xaiads 
—  beneath  the  limpid  surface.  You  might  hear  in  the 
bushes  the  young  blackbirds  trilling  their  first  untutored 
notes.  And  the  graceful  dragonfly,  his  wings  glittering 
in  the  translucent  sunshine,  darted  to  and  fro  the  reeds 
gathered  here  and  there  in  the  mimic  bays  that  broke  the 
shelving  marge  of  the  grassy  shore. 

And  by  that  grassy  shore,  and  beneath  tliose  shadowy 
limes,  sat  the  young  lovers.  It  was  the  very  place 
where  Spencer  had  first  beheld  Camilla.  And  now  they 
were  met  to  say  "  Farewell !  " 

"Oh,  Camilla!"  said  he,  with  great  emotion,  and 
eyes  that  swam  in  tears,  "  be  firm,  be  true.  You  know 
liow  my  whole  life  is  Avrapped  up  in  your  love.  You 
go  amidst  scenes  where  all  will  tempt  you  to  forget  me. 
I  linger  behind  in  those  which  are  consecrated  by  your 
remembrance,  which  will  speak  to  me,  every  hour,  of  you. 
Camilla,  since  you  do  love  me,  — you  do,  do  you  not? 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  loo 

—  since  you  have  confessed  it,  since  your  parents  have 
consented  to  our  marriage,  provided  only  that  your  love 
last  (for  of  mine  there  can  be  no  doubt)  for  one  year, 
one  terrible  year,  —  shall  I  not  trust  you  as  truth  itself? 
And  yet  how  darkly  I  despair  at  times!  " 

Camilla  innocently  took  the  hands  that,  clasped 
together,  were  raised  to  her,  as  if  in  supplication,  and 
pressed  them  kindly  between  her  own. 

"  Do  not  doubt  me,  —  never  doubt  my  affection.  Has 
not  my  father  consented?  Kefiect,  it  is  but  a  year's 
delay!" 

"  A  year!  —  can  you  speak  thus  of  a  year,  —  a  whole 
year?  Not  to  see  —  not  to  hear  you  for  a  whole  year, 
except  in  my  dreams!  And  if  at  the  end  your  parents 
waver?  Your  father, — I  distrust  him  still.  If  this 
delay  is  but  meant  to  wean  you  from  me;  if,  at  the  end, 
there  are  new  excuses  found;  if  they  then,  for  some 
cause  or  other  not  now  foreseen,  still  refuse  their 
assent,  —  j'ou  —  may  I  not  still  look  to  you  ?  " 

Camilla  sighed  heavily,  and,  turning  her  meek  face 
on  her  lover,  said  timidly,  "  Never  think  that  so  short 
a  time  can  make  me  unfaithful,  and  do  not  suspect 
that  my  father  will  break  his  promise. " 

"  But,  if  he  does,  you  will  still  be  mine  ?  " 

"Ah,  Charles,  how  could  you  esteem  me  as  a  wife  if 
I  were  to  tell  you  I  could  forget  I  am  a  daughter  ?  " 

This  was  said  so  touchingly,  and  with  so  perfect 
a  freedom  from  all  affectation,  that  her  lover  could 
only  reply  by  covering  her  hand  with  his  kisses. 
And  it  was  not  till  after  a  pause  that  he  continued 
passionately,  — 

"  You  do  but  show  me  how  much  deeper  is  my  love 
than  yours.  You  can  never  dream  how  I  love  you. 
But  I  do  not  ask  you  to  love  me  as  well,  —  it  would  be 


156  NIGHT   AND   MORNING, 

impossible.  My  life,  from  my  earliest  cliildliood,  has 
been  passed  in  these  solitudes;  a  happy  life,  though 
tranquil  and  monotonous,  till  you  suddenly  broke  upon 
it.  You  seemed  to  me  the  living  form  of  the  very 
poetry  I  had  worsliipped, — so  bright,  so  heavenly;  I 
loved  you  from  the  very  first  moment  that  we  met.  I 
am  not  like  other  men  of  my  age.  I  have  no  pursuit, 
no  occupation ,  —  nothing  to  abstract  me  from  your 
thought.  And  I  love  you  so  purely,  —  so  devotedly, 
Camilla.  I  have  never  known  even  a  passing  fancy  for 
another.  You  are  the  first,  the  only  woman,  it  ever 
seemed  to  me  possible  to  love.  You  are  my  Eve,  —  your 
presence  my  paradise!  Think  how  sad  I  shall  be  when 
you  are  gone ,  —  how  I  shall  visit  every  spot  your  foot- 
step has  hallowed ;  how  I  shall  count  every  moment  till 
the  year  is  past!  " 

While  he  thus  spoke  he  had  risen  in  that  restless 
agitation  which  belongs  to  great  emotion ;  and  Camilla 
now  rose  also,  and  said,  soothingly,  as  she  laid  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder  with  tender  but  modest  frankness, 
"  And  shall  I  not  also  think  of  you  1  I  am  sad  to  feel 
that  you  will  be  so  much  alone,  —  no  sister,  no 
brother!  " 

"  Do  not  grieve  for  that.  The  memory  of  you  will  be 
dearer  to  me  than  comfort  from  all  else.  And  you  will 
be  true  ? " 

Camilla  made  no  answer  by  words,  but  her  eyes  and 
her  color  spoke.  And  in  that  moment,  while  plighting 
eternal  truth,  they  forgot  that  they  were  about  to  part! 

Meanwhile  in  a  room  in  the  house  which,  screened 
by  the  foliage,  was  only  partially  visible  where  the  lovers 
stood,  sat  Mr,  Robert  Beaufort  and  Mr.  Spencer. 

"  I  assure  you,  sir, "  .said  the  former,  "  that  I  am  not 
insensible  to  the  merits  of  your  nephew,  and  to  the  very 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  157 

handsome  proposals  you  make,  still  I  cannot  consent  to 
abridge  the  time  I  have  named.  They  are  both  very 
young.     What  is  a  year?  " 

"  It  is  a  long  time  when  it  is  a  year  of  suspense, "  said 
the  recluse,  shaking  his  head. 

"  It  is  a  longer  time  when  it  is  a  year  of  domestic  dis- 
sension and  repentance.  And  it  is  a  very  true  proverb, 
'  Marry  in  haste  and  repent  at  leisure. '  Ko !  If  at  the 
end  of  the  year  the  young  people  continue  of  the  same 
mind,  and  no  unforeseen  circumstances  occur —  " 

"  No  unforeseen  circumstances,  Mr.  Beaufort !  —  that 
is  a  new  condition :  it  is  a  very  vague  phrase. " 

"  My  dear  sir,  it  is  hard  to  please  you.  Unforeseen 
circumstances, "  said  the  wary  father,  with  a  wise  look, 
"  means  circumstances  that  we  don't  foresee  at  present. 
I  assure  you  that  I  have  no  intention  to  trifle  with  you, 
and  I  shall  be  sincerely  happy  in  so  respectable  a 
connection." 

"  The  young  people  may  write  to  each  other  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  '11  consult  Mrs.  Beaufort.  At  all  events,  it 
must  not  be  very  often,  and  Camilla  is  well  brought  up, 
and  will  show  all  the  letters  to  her  mother.  I  don't 
much  like  a  correspondence  of  that  nature.  It  often 
leads  to  unpleasant  results ;  if,   for  instance  —  " 

"If  what?" 

"  Why,  if  the  parties  change  their  minds,  and  my  girl 
were  to  marry  another.  It  is  not  prudent  in  matters  of 
business,  my  dear  sir,  to  put  down  anything  on  paper 
that  can  be  avoided." 

Mr.  Spencer  opened  his  eyes.  "  Matters  of  business, 
Mr.  Beaufort!" 

"  Well,  is  not  marriage  a  matter  of  business,  and  a 
very  grave  matter,  too?  More  lawsuits  about  marriage 
and  settlements,  etc.,  than  I  like  to  think  of.     But  to 


158  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

change    the    subject.     You  have  never   heard  anything 
more  of  those  young  men,   you  say  1  " 

"  No, "  said  Mr.  Spencer,  rather  inaudibly,  and  looking 
down. 

"  And  it  is  your  firm  impression  that  the  elder  one, 
Philip,   is  dead  ?  " 

"I  don't  doubt  it." 

"  That  was  a  very  vexatious  and  improper  lawsuit 
their  mother  brought  against  me.  Do  you  know  that 
some  wretched  impostor,  who,  it  appears,  is  a  convict 
broke  loose  before  his  time,  has  tlireatened  me  with 
another,  on  the  part  of  one  of  those  young  men.  You 
never  heard  anything  of  it,  — •  eh  1  " 

"  Never,  upon  my  honor. " 

"  And,  of  course,  you  would  not  countenance  so  vil- 
lanous  an  attempt  ?  " 

"Certainly  not." 

"  Because  that  would  break  off  our  contract  at  once. 
But  you  are  too  much  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  honor. 
Forgive  me  so  improper  a  question.  As  for  the  younger 
Mr.  Morton,  I  have  no  ill-feeling  against  him.  But  the 
elder !  —  oh,  a  thorough  reprobate !  a  very  alarming 
character!  I  could  have  nothing  to  do  with  any  member 
of  the  family  while  the  elder  lived;  it  would  only  expose 
me  to  every  species  of  insult  and  imposition.  And  now 
I  think  we  have  left  our  young  friends  alone  long 
enough. 

"  But  stay,  to  prevent  future  misunderstanding,  I  may 
as  well  read  over  again  the  heads  of  the  arrangement  j'ou 
honor  me  by  proposing.  You  agree  to  settle  your  for- 
tune after  your  decease,  amounting  to  £23,000,  and  your 
house,  with  twenty-five  acres,  one  rood,  and  two  poles, 
more  or  less,  upon  your  nephew  and  my  daughter, 
jointly,  —  remainder  to  tlieir  children.      Certainly,  with- 


NIGHT   AND   MOKNING.  159 

out  offence,  in  a  worldly  point  of  view,  Camilla  might 
do  better;  still,  you  are  so  very  respectable,  and  you 
speak  so  handsomely,  that  I  cannot  touch  upon  that 
point;  and  I  own,  that  though  there  is  a  large  nominal 
rent-roll  attached  to  Beaufort  Court  (indeed  there  is  not 
a  finer  property  in  the  county),  yet  there  are  many 
encumbrances,  and  ready  money  would  not  be  conven- 
ient to  me.  Arthur  —  poor  fellow,  a  very  fine  young 
man,  sir  —  is,  as  I  have  told  you  in  perfect  confidence, 
a  little  imprudent  and  lavish ;  in  short,  your  offer  to  dis- 
pense with  any  dowry  is  extremely  liberal,  and  proves 
your  nephew  is  actuated  by  no  mercenary  feelings:  such 
conduct  prepossesses  me  highly  in  your  favor  and  his 
too." 

Mr.  Spencer  bowed,  and  the  great  man  rising,  with 
a  stiff  affectation  of  kindly  affability,  put  his  arm  into 
the  uncle's,  and  strolled  with  him  across  the  lawn 
towards  the  lovers.  And  vsuch  is  life,  —  love  on  the 
lawn,   and  settlements  in  the  parlor! 

The  lover  was  the  first  to  perceive  the  approach  of 
the  elder  parties.  And  a  change  came  over  his  face  as 
he  saw  the  dry  aspect  and  marked  the  stealthy  stride 
of  his  future  father-in-law ;  for  then  there  flashed  across 
him  a  dreary  reminiscence  of  early  childhood ;  the  happy 
evening  when,  with  his  joyous  father,  that  grave  and 
ominous  aspect  was  first  beheld ;  and  then  the  dismal 
burial,  the  funereal  sables,  the  carriage  at  the  door,  and 
he  himself  clinging  to  the  cold  uncle  to  ask  him  to  say  a 
word  of  comfort  to  the  mother  who  now  slept  far  away. 

"  Well,  my  young  friend, "  said  ]\Ir.  Beaufort,  patron- 
izingly, "  your  good  uncle  and  myself  are  quite  agreed, 
—  a  little  time  for  reflection,  that 's  all.  Oh !  I  don't 
think  the  worse  of  you  for  wishing  to  abridge  it.  But 
papas  must  be  papas. " 


160  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

There  was  so  little  jocular  about  that  sedate  man,  that 
this  attempt  at  jovial  good-humor  seemed  harsh  and 
grating, —  the  hinges  of  that  wily  mouth  wanted  oil  for 
a  hearty  smile. 

"  Come,  don't  be  faint-hearted,  Mr.  Charles.  '  Faint 
heart, '  —  you  know  the  proverb.  You  must  stay  and 
dine  Avith  us.  We  return  to-morrow  to  town.  I  should 
tell  you,  that.  I  received  this  morning  a  letter  from  my 
son  Arthur,  announcing  his  return  from  Baden,  so  we 
must  give  him  the  meeting,  —  a  very  joyful  one,  you  may 
guess.  "VVe  have  not  seen  him  these  three  years.  Poor 
fellow !  he  says  he  has  been  very  ill,  and  the  waters  have 
ceased  to  do  him  any  good.  But  a  little  quiet  and  country- 
air  at  Beaufort  Court  will  set  him  up,  I  hope. " 

Thus  running  on  about  his  son,  then  about  his  shoot- 
ing, about  Beaufort  Court  and  its  splendors,  aboiit 
Parliament  and  its  fatigues,  about  the  last  French 
Revolution  and  the  last  English  election,  about  Mrs. 
Beaufort  and  her  good  qualities  and  bad  health,  about, 
in  short,  everything  relating  to  himself,  some  things 
relating  to  the  public,  and  nothing  that  related  to  the 
persons  to  whom  his  conversation  was  directed,  Mr. 
Robert  Beaufort  wore  away  half-an-hour,  Avlien  the 
Spencers  took  their  leave,  promising  to  return  to  dinner. 

"  Charles, "  said  Mr.  Spencer,  as  the  boat,  which  the 
young  man  rowed,  bounded  over  the  water  towards  their 
quiet  home,  — "  Charles,  I  dislike  these  Beauforts!  " 

"Not  the  daugliter?" 

"  No,  she  is  beautiful,  and  seems  good :  not  so  hand- 
some as  your  poor  mother,  but  who  ever  was  ? " 
Here  Mr.  Spencer  sighed,  and  repeated  some  lines  from 
Shenstone. 

"  Do  you  think  Mr.  Beaufort  suspects  in  the  least  who 
Tam?" 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  161 

"  Why,  tliat  puzzles  me ;  I  rather  think  he  does. " 

"  And  that  is  the  cause  of  the  delay  1     I  knew  it. " 

"  No,  on  the  contrary,  I  incline  to  think  he  has  some 
kindly  feeling  to  you,  though  not  to  your  brother,  and 
that  it  is  such  a  feeling  that  made  him  consent  to  your 
marriage.  He  sifted  me  very  closely  as  to  what  I  knew 
of  the  young  Mortons, —  observed  that  you  were  very 
handsome,  and  that  he  had  fancied  at  first  that  he  had 
seen  you  before." 

"Indeed!" 

"  Yes :  and  looked  hard  at  me  while  he  spoke,  and  said 
more  than  once,  significantly,  '  So  his  name  is  Charles  ? ' 
He  talked  about  some  attempt  at  imposture  and  litigation, 
but  that  was,  evidently,  merely  to  sound  me  about  your 
brother, —  whom,  of  course,  he  spoke  ill  of, —  impressing 
on  me,  three  or  foTir  times,  tlnit  he  would  never  have 
anything  to  say  to  any  of  the  family  while  Philip  lived. " 

"  And  you  told  him, "  said  the  young  man,  hesitat- 
ingly, and  with  a  deep  blush  of  shame  over  his  face, 
"  that  you  were  persuad  —  that  is,  that  you  believed 
Philip  was  —  was  —  " 

"  Was  dead !  Yes ;  and  without  confusion.  For  the 
more  I  reflect,  the  more  I  think  he  must  be  dead.  At 
all  events,  you  may  be  sure  that  he  is  dead  to  us,  that 
we  shall  never  hear  more  of  him." 

"Poor  Philip!" 

"  Your  feelings  are  natural :  they  are  worthy  of  your 
excellent  heart ;  but  remember,  wdiat  would  have  become 
of  you  if  you  had  stayed  with  him !  " 

"  True!  "  said  the  brother,  with  a  slight  shudder,  —  "  a 
career  of  suffering,  crime,  perhaps  the  gibbet!  Ah! 
what  do  I  owe  you  1  " 

The  dinner-party  at  Mr.  Beaufort's  that  day  was 
constrained    and    formal,    though    the    host,    in    unusual 

VOL.  H. 11 


162  NIGHT   AND    MORXING. 

good-liumor,  sought  to  make  himself  agreeable.  Mrs. 
Beaufort,  languid  and  afllicted  with  headache,  said  little. 
The  two  Spencers  were  yet  more  silent.  But  the  younger 
sat  next  to  her  he  loved ;  and  both  hearts  were  full ;  and 
in  the  evening  they  contrived  to  creep  apart  into  a  cor- 
ner by  the  window,  through  which  the  starry  heavens 
looked  kindly  on  them.  They  conversed  in  whispers, 
with  long  pauses  between  each :  and  at  times  Camilla's 
tears  flowed  silently  down  her  cheeks,  and  were  followed 
by  tlie  false  smiles  intended  to  cheer  her  lover. 

Time  did  not  fly,  but  crept  on  breathlessly  and  heavily. 
And  then  came  the  last  parting  —  formal,  cold  —  before 
witnesses.  But  the  lover  could  not  restrain  his  emotion, 
and  the  hard  father  heard  his  suppressed  sob  as  he  closed 
the  door. 

It  will  now  be  well  to  explain  the  cause  of  Mr. 
Beaufort's  heightened  spirits,  and  the  motives  of  his 
conduct  with  respect  to  his  daughter's  suitor. 

Tliis,  perhaps,  can  be  best  done  by  laying  before  the 
reader  the  following  letters  that  passed  between  Mr. 
Beaufort  and  Lord  Lilburne:  — 

FROM   LORD   LILBURNE   TO   ROBERT   BEAUFORT,   ESQ.,  M.  P. 

Dear  Beaufort,  —  I  think  I  have  settled,  pretty  satis- 
factorily, your  affair  witli  your  unwelcome  visitor.  The  first 
thing  it  seemed  to  me  necessary  to  do  was  to  leam  exactly 
what  and  wlio  he  was,  and  with  what  parties  that  could  annoy 
you  he  held  intiM-course.  I  sent  for  Sharp,  the  Bow  Street 
officer,  and  placed  him  in  the  hall  to  mark,  and  afterwards  to 
dog  and  keep  watch  on  your  new  friend.  The  moment  the 
latter  entered  I  saw  at  once,  from  his  dress  and  his  address, 
that  he  was  a  "scamp  ; "  and  thought  it  highly  inexpedient 
to  place  you  in  his  power  Ijy  any  money  transactions.  While 
talking  with  him.  Sharp  sent  in  a  billet  containing  his  recog- 
nition of  our  gentleman  as  a  transported  convict. 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  163 

I  acted  accordingly  ;  soon  saw,  from  tlie  fellow's  manner, 
that  he  had  returned  before  his  time  ;  and  Pent  him  away  with 
a  promise,  which  you  may  be  sure  he  believes  will  be  kept, 
that  if  he  molest  you  further  he  shall  return  to  the  colonies, 
and  that  if  his  lawsuit  proceed,  his  witness  or  witnesses  shall 
be  indicted  for  conspiracy  and  perjury.  Make  your  n)ind 
easy  so  far.  Fur  the  rest,  I  own  to  you  that  I  think  what  he 
eays  probable  enough  •  but  my  object  in  setting  Sharp  to 
watch  him  is  to  learn  what  other  parties  he  sees.  And  if  there 
be  really  anything  formidable  iu  his  proofs  or  witnesses,  it  is 
with  those  other  parties  I  advise  you  to  deal.  Never  transact 
business  with  the  go-between,  if  you  can  with  the  principal. 
Remember,  the  two  young  men  are  the  persons  to  arrange  with, 
after  all.  They  must  be  poor,  and  therefore  easily  dealt  with. 
For  if  poor,  they  will  think  a  bird  in  the  hand  worth  two  in 
the  bush  of  a  lawsuit. 

If,  through  Mr.  Spencer,  you  can  learn  anything  of  either 
of  the  young  men,  do  so ;  and  try  and  open  some  channel 
through  which  you  can  always  establish  a  communication  with 
them,  if  necessary.  Perhaps,  by  learning  their  early  history 
you  may  learn  something  to  put  them  into  your  power. 

I  have  had  a  twinge  of  the  gout  this  morning,  and  am  likely, 
[  fear,  to  be  laid  up  for  some  weeks. 

Yours  truly, 

LiLBURNE. 

P.  S.  Sharp  has  just  been  here.  He  followed  the  man 
who  calls  himself  "  Captain  Smith  "to  a  house  in  Lambeth, 
where  he  lodges,  and  from  which  he  did  not  stir  till  midnight, 
when  Sharp  ceased  his  watch.  On  renewing  it  this  morning, 
he  found  that  the  captain  had  gone  off,  to  what  place  Sharp 
has  not  yet  discovered. 

Burn  this  immediately. 

PROM    ROBERT   BEAUFORT,   ESQ.,   M.   P.,   TO   THE    LORD 
LILBURNE. 

Dear  Lilburne,  —  Accept  my  warmest  thanks  for  your 
kindness ;  you  have  done  admirably,  and  I  do  not  see  that  I 


164  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

have  anytliing  further  to  apprehend.  I  suspect  that  it  wa?  an 
entire  fabrication  on  that  man's  part,  and  your  firmness  has 
foiled  his  wicked  designs.  Only  think,  1  have  discovered  —  I 
am  sure  of  it  —  one  of  the  Mortons;  and  he,  too,  though  the 
younger,  yet,  in  all  probability,  the  sole  pretender  the  lellow 
could  set  up.  You  remember  that  the  child  Sidney  had  dis- 
appeared mysteriously,  —  you  remember,  also,  how  much  that 
Mr.  Spencer  had  interested  himself  in  finding  out  the  same 
Sidney.  Well,  —  this  gentleman  at  the  Lakes  is,  as  we  sus- 
pected, the  identical  Mr.  Spencer,  and  his  soi-disant  nephew, 
Camilla's  suitor,  is  assuredly  no  other  than  the  lost  Sidney. 
The  moment  I  saw  the  young  man,  I  recognized  him  ;  for  he 
is  very  little  altered,  and  has  a  great  look  of  hi.s  mother  into 
the  bargain.  Concealing  my  more  than  suspicions,  I,  how- 
ever, took  care  to  sound  Mr.  Spencer  (a  very  poor  soul),  and 
his  manner  was  so  embarrassed  as  to  leave  no  doubt  of  the 
matter  ;  but,  in  asking  him  what  he  had  heard  of  the  brothers, 
I  had  the  satisfaction  of  learning  that,  in  all  human  probability, 
the  elder  is  dead  :  of  this  Mr.  Spencer  seems  convinced.  I 
also  assured  mj'self  that  neither  Spencer  nor  the  young  man 
had  the  remotest  connection  with  our  Captain  Smith,  nor  any 
idea  of  litigation.  This  is  very  satisfactorj'-,  you  will  allow. 
And  now,  I  hope  you  will  approve  of  what  I  have  done.  I 
find  that  young  Morton,  or  Spencer,  as  he  is  called,  is  desper- 
ately enamored  of  Camilla  ;  he  seems  a  meek,  well-conditioned, 
amiable  young  man,  writes  poetry,  —  in  short,  rather  weak 
than  otherwise.  I  have  demanded  a  year's  delay  to  allow 
mutual  trial  and  reflection.  This  gives  us  the  channel  for  con- 
stant information  which  you  advise  me  to  establish,  and  I  shall 
have  the  opportunity  to  learn  if  the  impostor  makes  any  com- 
munication to  them,  or  if  there  be  any  news  of  the  brother. 
If  by  any  trick  or  chicanery  (for  I  will  never  believe  that  there 
was  a  marriage)  a  lawsuit  that  might  be  critical  or  hazardous 
can  be  cooked  up,  I  can,  I  am  sure,  make  such  terms  with 
Sidney,  through  his  love  for  mj'  daughter,  as  would  effectively 
and  permanently  secure  me  from  all  further  trouble  and 
machinations  in  regard  to  my  pro]ierty.  And  if,  during  the 
year,  we  convince  ourselves  that,  after  all,  there  ia  not  a  leg  of 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  165 

law  for  any  claimant  to  stand  on,  T  may  be  giiided  by  otber 
circumstances  how  far  I  shall  finally  accept  or  reject  the  suit. 
That  must  depend  on  any  other  views  we  may  then  form  for 
Camilla  ;  and  I  shall  not  allow  a  hint  of  such  an  enfragement 
to  get  abroad.  At  the  worst,  as  Mr.  Spencer's  heir,  it  is  not 
8o  very  bad  a  match,  seeing  that  they  dispense  with  all  mar- 
riage-portion, etc.,  —  a  proof  how  easily  they  can  be  managed. 
I  have  not  let  Mr.  Spencer  see  that  I  have  discovered  his 
secret,  —  I  can  do  that  or  not,  according  to  circumstances, 
hereaftefTTieither  have  I  said  anything  of  my  discovery  to 
Mrs.  B.  or  Camilla.  At  present,  "  least  said  soonest  mended." 
I  heard  from  Arthur  to-day.  He  is  on  his  road  home,  and  we 
hasten  to  town  sooner  than  we  expected  to  meet  him.  He 
complains  still  of  his  health.  We  shall  all  go  down  to  Beau- 
fort Court.  I  write  this  at  night,  the  pretended  uncle  and 
sham  nei)hew  having  just  gone.  But  though  we  start  to- 
morrow, you  will  get  this  a  day  or  two  before  we  arrive,  as 
Mrs.  Beaufort's  health  renders  short  stages  necessary.  I  really 
do  hope  that  Arthur,  also,  will  not  be  an  invalid,  poor  fellow! 
one  in  a  family  is  quite  enough  ;  and  I  find  Mrs.  Beaufort's 
delicacy  very  inconvenient,  especially  in  moving  about,  and  in 
keeping  up  one's  county  connections.  A  young  man's  health, 
however,  is  soon  restored.  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  of  your 
gout,  except  that  it  carries  off  all  other  complaints.  I  am  very 
well,  thank  Heaven  ;  indeed  my  health  has  been  much  better 
of  late  years  :  Beaufort  Court  agrees  with  me  so  well  1  The 
more  I  reflect,  the  more  I  am  astonished  at  the  monstrous  and 
wicked  impudence  of  that  fellow,  — to  defraud  a  man  out  of 
his  own  property!  You  are  quite  right,  —  certainly  a 
conspiracy. 

Yours  truly, 

XV.  B. 

P.  S.     I  shall  keep  a  constant  eye  on  the  Spencers. 
Bum  this  immediately. 

After   he    had   written   and   sealed    this   letter,    Mr 
Beaufort  went  to  bed   and  slept  soundly. 


166  NIGHT   AND   MORNING, 

And  the  next  day  that  place  was  desolate,  and  the 
board  on  the  lawn  announced  that  it  was  again  to  be  let. 
But  thither  daily,  in  rain  or  sunshine,  came  the  solitary 
lover,  as  a  bird  that  seeks  its  young  in  the  deserted  nest: 
again  and  again  he  haunted  the  spot  where  he  had  strayed 
with  the  lost  one, —  and  again  and  again  murmured  his 
passionate  vows  beneath  the  fast-fading  limes.  Are  those 
vows  destined  to  be  ratified  or  annulled?  Will  the 
absent  forget,  or  the  lingerer  be  consoled?  Had  the 
characters  of  that  yovmg  romance  been  lightly  stamped 
on  the  fancy,  where  once  obliterated  they  are  erased  for- 
ever,—  or  were  they  graven  deep  in  those  tablets  where 
the  writing,  even  when  invisible,  exists  still,  and  revives, 
sweet  letter  by  letter,  when  the  light  and  the  warmth 
borrowed  from  the  one  bright  presence  are  applied  to  the 
faithful  record  1  There  is  but  one  wizard  to  disclose  that 
secret,  as  all  others,  —  the  old  Gravedigger  whose  Church- 
yard is  the  Earth:  whose  trade  is  to  find  burial-places 
for  passions  that  seemed  immortal;  disinterring  the  ashes 
of  some  long-crumbling  Memory ;  to  hollow  out  the  dark 
bed  of  some  new-perished  Hope.  He  who  determines 
all  things  and  prophesies  none ;  for  his  oracles  are  uncom- 
prehended  till  tlie  doom  is  sealed.  He  who  in  the  bloom 
of  the  fairest  affection  detects  the  hectic  that  consumes 
it,  and  while  the  hymn  rings  at  the  altar,  marks  with 
his  joyless  eye  the  grave  for  the  bridal  vow.  Wherever 
is  the  sepulchre,  there  is  thy  temple,  0  melancholy 
time! 


BOOK   V. 

Unb  ju  eineg  ©trom§  ©c[taiien 
Bam  id),  bcr  natfi  ^JJJorgcn  flofe. 

Schillek:  Der  Pilgrim. 


BOOK    V. 


CHAPTER   I. 

Per  ambages  et  miuisteria  deorum.i  —  Petronius. 

Mr.  Eoger  Morton  was  behind  his  counter  one 
drizzling,  melancholy  day.  Mr.  Roger  Morton,  alder- 
man, and  twice  mayor  of  his  native  town,  was  a  thriving 
man.  He  had  grov/n  portly  and  corpulent.  The  nightly 
potations  of  brandy-and- water,  continued  year  after  year 
with  mechanical  perseverance,  had  deepened  the  roses  on 
his  cheek.  Mr.  Roger  Morton  was  never  intoxicated,  — • 
he  only  "  made  himself  comfortable."  His  constitution 
was  strong;  but  somehow  or  other  his  digestion  was  not 
as  good  as  it  might  be.  He  was  certain  that  something 
or  other  disagreed  with  him.  He  left  off  the  joint  one 
day,  —  the  pudding  another.  Now  he  avoided  vegetables 
as  poison, — and  now  he  submitted  with  a  sigh  to  the 
doctor's  interdict  of  his  cigar.  Mr.  Roger  Morton  never 
thought  of  leaving  off  the  brandy-and-water:  and  he 
would  have  resented  as  the  height  of  impertinent 
insinuation  any  hint  upon  that  score  to  a  man  of  so  sober 
and  respectable  a  character. 

Mr.   Roger  Morton   was  seated,  —  for  the   last   four 

years,  ever  since  his  second  mayoralty,  he  had  arrogated 

to  himself  the  dignity  of  a  chair.      He  received  rather 

than   served  his   customers.     The  latter  task  was  left  to 

1  Through  the  mysteries  aud  ministering  of  the  gods. 


170  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

two  of  his  sons.  For  Tom,  after  much  cogitation,  the 
profession  of  an  apothecary  had  been  selected.  Mrs. 
Morton  observed,  that  it  was  a  genteel  business,  and 
Tom  had  always  been  a  likely  lad;  and  Mr.  Rogei 
considered  that  it  would  be  a  great  comfort  and  a  great 
saving  to  have  his  medical  adviser  in  his  own  son. 

The  other  two  sons,  and  the  various  attendants  of  the 
shop,  were  plying  the  profitable  trade,  as  customer  aftei 
customer,  with  umbrellas  and  in  pattens,  dropped  into 
the  tempting  shelter,  —  when  a  man,  meanly  dressed, 
and  who  was  somewhat  past  middle  age,  with  a  careworn, 
hungry  face,  entered  timidly.  He  waited  in  patience  by 
the  crowded  counter,  elbowed  by  sharpboned  and  eager 
spinsters,  —  and  how  sharp  the  elbows  of  spinsters  are, 
no  man  can  tell  who  has  not  forced  his  unwelcome  way 
through  the  agitated  groups  in  a  linendraper's  shop!  — 
the  man,  I  say,  waited  patiently  and  sadly  till  the 
smallest  of  the  shopboys  turned  from  a  lady,  who,  after 
much  sorting  and  shading,  had  finally  decided  on  two 
yards  of  lilac-colored  penny  ribbon,  and  asked,  in  an 
insinuating  professional  tone,  — 

"What  shall  I  show  you,  sir?  " 

"  I  wish  to  speak  to  Mr.  Morton.     Which  is  he  ?  " 

"Mr.  Morton  is  engaged,  sir.  I  can  give  you  what 
you  want." 

"  No ;  it  is  a  matter  of  business, —  important  business." 

The  boy  eyed  the  napless  and  dripping  hat,  the 
gloveless  hands,  and  the  rusty  neckcloth  of  the  speaker, 
and  said,  as  he  passed  his  fingers  through  a  profusion  of 
light  curls,  — 

"  Mr.  Morton  don't  attend  much  to  business  himself 
now;  but  that 's  he.     Any  cravats,  sir?  " 

The  man  made  no  answer,  but  moved  where,  neai 
the    window,    and    chatting   with    the    banker   of   the 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  171 

town  (as  the  banker  tried  on  a  pair  of  beaver  gloves), 
sat  still  —  after  due  apology  for  sitting  —  Mr.  Roger 
Morton. 

The  alderman  lowered  his  spectacles  as  he  glanced 
grimly  at  the  lean  apparition  that  shaded  the  spruce 
banker,  and  said,  — 

"  Do  you  want  me,  friend  1  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  if  you  please;  "  and  the  man  took  off  his 
shabby  hat,  and  bowed  low. 

"  Well,  speak  out.     No  begging  petition,  I  hope?  " 

"  No,  sir;  your  nephews  • —  " 

The  banker  turned  round,  and  in  his  turn  eyed  the 
new-comer.      The  linendraper  started  back. 

"Nephews!"  he  repeated,  with  a  bewildered  look. 
"  What  does  the  man  mean  1     Wait  a  bit. " 

"Oh,  I've  done!  "  said  the  banker,  smiling.  "  I  am 
glad  to  find  we  agree  so  well  upon  this  question :  I  knew 
we  should.  Our  member  will  never  suit  us  if  he  goes 
on  in  this  way.  Trade  must  take  care  of  itself.  Good- 
day  to  you." 

"Nephews!  "  repeated  Mr.  Morton,  rising,  and  beck- 
oning to  the  man  to  follow  him  into  the  back  parlor, 
where  Mrs.   jVIorton  sat  casting  up  the  washing  bills. 

"  Now,"  said  the  husband,  closing  the  door,  "  what  do 
you  mean,  my  good  fellow'?  " 

"  Sir,  what  I  wish  to  ask  you  is,  —  if  you  can  tell  me 
what  has  become  of  —  of  the  young  Beau — ,  — that  is, 
of  your  sister's  sons.  I  understand  there  were  two  — 
and  I  am  told  that  —  that  they  are  both  dead.  Is 
it   so?" 

"  Wliat  is  that  to  you,  friend  ?  " 

"  An'  please  you,  sir,  it  is  a  great  deal  to  them  !  " 

"Yes  —  ha!  ha!  —  it  is  a  great  deal  to  everybody, 
whether  they  are  alive  or  dead!"     Mr.    Morton,  since 


172  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

he  had  been  mayor,  now  and  then  had  his  joke.  "But 
really  — '' 

"  lloger!  "  said  Mrs.  Morton,  under  her  breath,^ 
"Roger!" 

"  Yes,  my  dear." 

"  Come  this  way,  —  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  this 
bill."  The  husband  approached,  and  bent  over  his  wife. 
"  \Ylio  's  this  man  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"Depend  on  it,  he  has  some  claim  to  make,  —  some 
bills,  or  something.  Don't  commit  yourself,  — the  boys 
are  dead  for  what  we  know!  " 

Mr.  Morton  hemmed,  and  returned  to  his  visitor. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  not  aware  of  what  has 
become  of  the  young  men." 

"  Then  they  are  not  dead,  —  I  thought  not!  "  exclaimed 
the  man,  joyously. 

"  That 's  more  than  I  can  say.  It 's  many  years  since 
I  lost  sight  of  the  only  one  I  ever  saw;  and  they  may 
be  both  dead  for  what  I  know." 

"  Indeed!  "  said  the  man.  "  Then  you  can  give  me 
no  kind  of  —  of  —  hint  like,  to  find  them  out?  " 

"  'No.     Do  they  owe  you  anything?  " 

"  It  does  not  signify  talking  now,  sir.  I  beg  your 
pardon." 

"  Stay,  — who  are  you?  " 

"  I  am  a  very  poor  man,  sir." 

Mr.  Morton  recoiled. 

"  Poor!  Oh,  very  well,  —  very  well.  You  have  done 
with  me  now.      Good-day,  —  good-day.      I  'm  busy." 

1'he  stranger  pecked  for  a  moment  at  his  hat,  turned 
the  handle  of  the  door,  peered  under  his  gray  eyebrows 
at  the  portly  trader,  who,  with  both  hands  buried  in  his 
pockets,  his  mouth  pursed  u[),  like  a  man  about  to  say 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  173 

"No,"  fidgeted  uneasily  behind  Mrs.   Morton's  chair. 
He  sighed,  shook  his  head,  and  vanished. 

Mrs.  Morton  rang  the  bell, —  the  maid-servant  entered. 

"  Wipe  the  carpet,  Jenny,  —  dirty  feet!  Mr.  Morton, 
it 's  a  Brussels  !  " 

"  It  was  not  my  fault,  my  dear.  I  could  not  talk 
about  family  matters  before  the  whole  shop.  Do  you 
know,  I  'd  quite  forgot  those  poor  boys.  This  unsettles 
me.  Poor  Catherine!  she  was  so  fond  of  them.  A 
pretty  boy  that  Sidney,  too.  What  can  have  become  of 
them  ?  My  heart  rebukes  me.  I  wish  I  had  asked  the 
man  more." 

"  More!  —  why,  he  was  just  going  to  beg." 

"Beg, — yes:  very  true!"  said  Mr.  Morton,  paiasing 
irresolutely;  and  then,  with  a  hearty  tone,  he  cried  out, 
"  And,  damme,  if  he  had  begged,  I  could  afford  him  a 
shilling!  I  '11  go  after  him."  So  saying,  he  hastened 
back  through  the  shop,  but  the  man  was  gone,  the  rain 
was  falling,  Mr.  Morton  had  his  thin  shoes  on;  he  blew 
his  nose,  and  went  back  to  the  counter.  But  there  still 
rose  to  his  memory  the  pale  face  of  his  dead  sister;  and  a 
voice  murmured  in  his  ear,  "  Brother,  where  is  my 
child?" 

"Pshaw!  it  is  not  my  fault  if  he  ran  away.  Bob,  go 
and  get  me  the  county  paper." 

Mr.  Morton  had  again  settled  himself,  and  was  deep 
in  a  trial  for  murder,  when  another  stranger  strode 
haughtily  into  the  shop.  The  new-comer,  wrapped  in 
a  pelisse  of  furs,  with  a  thick  mustache,  and  an  63^6  that 
took  in  the  whole  shop,  from  master  to  boy,  from  ceiling 
to  floor,  in  a  glance,  had  the  air  at  once  of  a  foreigner 
and  a  soldier.  Every  look  fastened  on  him,  as  he 
paused  an  instant,  and  then  walking  up  to  the  alderman, 
said,  — 


174  NIGHT   AND   MOHXING. 

"  Sir,  you  are  doubtless  Mr.  Morton  1  " 

"At  your  commands,  sir,"  said  Roger,  rising 
involuntarily. 

"  A  word  with  you,  then,  on  business." 

"  Business!  "  echoed  Mr.  jNIorton,  turning  rather  pale, 
for  he  began  to  think  himself  haunted ;  "  anything  in 
my  line,  sir?     I  should  be  —  " 

The  stranger  bent  down  his  tall  stature,  and  hissed 
into  Mr.  Morton's  foreboding  ear, — 

"  Your  nephews !  " 

Mr.  Morton  was  literally  dumb-stricken.  Yes,  he 
certainly  7vas  haunted!  He  stared  at  this  second  ques- 
tioner, and  fancied  that  there  was  something  very 
supernatural  and  unearthly  about  him.  He  was  so 
tall  and  so  dark  and  so  stern  and  so  strange.  Was  it 
the  Unspeakable  himself  come  for  the  linendraper? 
Kephews  again!  The  uncle  of  the  babes  in  the  wood 
could  hardly  have  been  more  startled  by  the  demand! 

"  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Morton  at  last,  recovering  his  dignity 
and  somewhat  peevishly, — "sir,  I  don't  know  Avhy 
people  should  meddle  with  my  family  affairs.  I  don't 
a.sk  other  folks  about  their  nephews.  I  have  no  nephew 
that  I  know  of. " 

"  Permit  me  to  speak  to  you,  alone,  for  one  instant." 

Mr.  Morton  sighed,  hitched  up  his  trousers,  and  led 
the  way  to  the  parlor,  where  Mrs.  IMorton,  having 
finished  the  washing  bills,  was  now  engaged  in  tying 
certain  pieces  of  bladder  round  certain  pots  of  preserves. 
The  elde.st  Miss  Morton,  a  young  woman  of  five  or  six 
and  twenty,  who  was  about  to  be  very  advantageously 
married  to  a  young  gentleman  who  dealt  in  coals  and 

played  the  violin  (for  N was  a  very  musical  town), 

had  just  joined  her  for  the  purpose  of  extorting  "  The 
Swiss  Boy,  with  variations,"  out  of  a  sleepy  little  piano, 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  175 

that  emitted  a  very  painful  cry  under  the  awakening 
fingers  of  Miss  ^Margaret  jMorton. 

Mr.  Morton  threw  open  the  door  witli  a  grunt,  and 
the  stranger  pausing  at  the  threshold,  the  full  flood  of 
sound  (key  C)  upon  wliich  "  The  Swiss  Boy "  was 
swimming  along,  "  kine  "  and  all,  for  life  and  death, 
came  splash  upon  liim. 

"Silence!  can't  you?"  cried  the  father,  putting  one 
hand  to  his  ear,  while  with  the  other  he  pointed  to  a 
chair;  and,  as  Mrs.  Morton  looked  up  from  the  preserves 
with  that  air  of  indignant  suffering  with  which  female 
meekness  upbraids  a  husband's  wanton  outrage,  Mr. 
Roger  added,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  — 

"  My  nephews  again,  Mrs.  M. !  " 

Miss  Margaret  turned  round,  and  dropped  a  courtesy. 
Mrs,  INIorton  gently  let  fall  a  napkin  over  the  preserves, 
and  muttered  a  sort  of  salutation,  as  the  stranger,  taking 
off  his  hat,  turned  to  mother  and  daugliter  one  of  those 
noble  faces  in  which  nature  has  written  her  grant  and 
warranty  of  the  lordship  of  creation. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said,  "  if  I  disturb  you;  but  my 
business  will  be  short.  I  have  come  to  ask  you,  sir, 
Jrankly,  and  as  one  who  has  a  right  to  ask  it,  what 
tilings  you  can  give  me  of  Sidney  Morton?" 

"  Sir,  I  know  nothing  whatever  about  him.  He  was 
taken  from  my  house,  about  twelve  years  since,  by  his 
brother.  Myself,  and  the  two  Mr.  Beauforts,  and  another 
friend  of  the  family,  went  in  search  of  them  both.  jNIy 
search  failed." 

"  And  theirs  ?  " 

"  I  understood  from  Mr.  Beaufort  tliat  they  had  not 
been  more  successful.  I  have  had  no  communication 
•with  those  gentlemen  since.  But  that 's  neither  here 
nor  there.     In  all  probability,  the  elder  of  the  boys  — 


176  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

■who,  I  fear,  was  a  sad  character  —  corrupted  and  ruined 
his  brother;  and,  by  this  time,  Heaven  knows  what  and 
where  they  are." 

"  And  no  one  has  inquired  of  you  since  —  no  one  has 
asked  the  brother  of  Catherine  Morton,  nay,  rather  of 
Catherine  Beaufort  —  where  is  the  child  intrusted  to 
your  care  ?  " 

This  question,  so  exactly  similar  to  that  which  his 
superstition  had  rung  on  his  own  ears,  perfectly  appalled 
the  worthy  alderman.  He  staggered  back,  stared  at  the 
marked  and  stern  face  that  lowered  upon  him,  and  at 
last  cried, — 

"  For  pity's  sake,  sir,  be  just!  What  could  I  do  for 
one  who  left  me  of  his  own  accord  1  " 

"  The  day  you  had  beaten  him  like  a  dog.  You  see, 
Mr.  Morton,  I  know  all." 

"  And  what  are  you  ?  "  said  Mr.  Morton,  recovering  his 
English  courage,  and  feeling  himself  strangely  broW' 
beaten  in  his  own  house, — "what  and  who  are  you, 
that  you  thus  take  the  liberty  to  catechize  a  man  of  my 
character  and  respectability  ?  " 

"  Twice  mayor  —  "  began  Mrs.  Morton. 

"  Hush ,  mother!  "  whispered  Miss  Margaret,  —  "  don't 
work  him  up." 

"  I  repeat,  sir,  what  are  you  ?  " 

"  What  am  1  ?  —  your  nephew !  Who  am  I  ?  Before 
men,  I  bear  a  name  that  I  have  assumed,  and  not 
dishonored,  —  before  Heaven,  I  am  Philip  Beaiifort!  " 

Mrs.  Morton  drojiped  down  upon  her  stool.  Margaret 
murmured  "  My  cousin!  "  in  a  tone  that  the  ear  of  the 
mupical  coal-merchant  might  not  have  greatly  relished. 
And  Mr.  Morton,  after  a  long  pause,  came  up  with  a 
frank  and  manly  expression  of  joy,  and  said,  — 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  177 

"  Then,  sir,  I  thank  Heaven,  from  my  heart,  that  one 
of  my  sister's  children  stands  alive  before  me!  " 

"  And  now,  again,  I  — I  whom  you  accuse  of  having 
corrupted  and  ruined  him;  him  for  whom  I  toiled  and 
worked;  him,  who  was  to  me,  then,  as  a  last  surviving 
son  to  some  anxious  father  —  I,  from  whom  he  was 
reft  and  robbed,  I  ask  you  again  for  Sidney,  for  my 
brother!" 

"  And  again,  I  say,  that  I  have  no  information  to  give 
you,  that  —  stay  a  moment,  stay.  You  must  pardon 
what  I  have  said  of  you  before  you  made  yourself  known. 
I  went  but  by  the  accounts  I  had  received  from  Mr. 
Beaufort.  Let  me  speak  plainly;  that  gentleman 
thought,  right  or  wrong,  that  it  would  be  a  great  thing 
to  separate  your  brother  from  you.  He  may  have  found 
him ,  —  it  must  be  so ,  —  and  kept  his  name  and  condition 
concealed  from  us  all,  lest  you  should  detect  it.  Mrs.  M. , 
don't  you  think  so?  " 

"  I  'm  sure  I  'm  so  terrified  I  don't  know  what  to 
think,"  said  INIrs.  Morton,  putting  her  hand  to  her 
forehead,  and  see-sawing  herself  to  and  fro  upon  her 
stool. 

"  But  since  they  wronged  you ;  since  you  —  you  seem 
so  very  —  very  —  " 

"  Very  much  the  gentleman,"  suggested  Miss 
Margaret. 

"  Yes,  so  much  the  gentleman;  well  off,  too,  I  should 
hope,  sir,"  —  and  the  experienced  eye  of  Mr.  Morton 
glanced  at  the  costly  sables  that  lined  the  pelisse, — ■ 
"  there  can  be  no  difficulty  in  your  learning  from  Mr. 
Beaufort  all  that  you  wish  to  know.  And  pray,  sir, 
may  I  ask,  did  you  send  any  one  here  to-day  to  make 
the  very  inquiry  you  have  made?" 

"  I  ?  _  ISTo.     What  do  you  mean  1  " 

VOL.  II   —  12 


178  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"Well,  well, — sit  down,  —  there  may  be  something 
in  all  this  that  you  may  make  out  better  than  I  can." 

And  as  I'hilip  obeyed,  Mr.  Morton,  who  was  really 
and  honestly  rejoiced  to  see  his  sister's  son  alive  and 
apparently  thriving,  proceeded  to  relate  pretty  exactly 
the  conversation  he  had  held  with  the  previous  visitor. 
Philip  listened  earnestly  and  with  attention.  Who 
could  this  questioner  be  1  Some  one  who  knew  his 
birth;  some  one  who  sought  him  out?  —  some  one,  who 
—  good  heavens!  could  it  be  the  long-lost  witness  of 
the  marriage  1 

As  soon  as  that  idea  struck  him,  he  started  from  his 
seat,  and  entreated  Morton  to  accompany  him  in  search 
of  the  stranger.  "You  know  not,"  he  said,  in  a  tone 
impressed  with  that  energy  of  will  in  which  lay  the 
talent  of  his  mind,  —  "  you  know  not  of  what  importance 
this  may  be  to  my  prospects,  to  your  sister's  fair  name. 
If  it  should  be  the  witness  returned  at  last!  Who  else, 
of  the  rank  you  describe,  would  be  interested  in  such 
inquiries?     Come! " 

'■'  What  witness  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Morton,  fretfully.  "  You 
don't  mean  to  come  over  us  with  the  old  story  of  the 
marriage  ?  " 

"Shall  your  wife  slander  your  own  sister,  sir?  A 
marriage  there  was:  God  yet  will  proclaim  the  right,  — 
and  the  name  of  Beaufort  shall  be  yet  placed  on  my 
mother's  gravestone.      Come!" 

"  Here  are  your  shoes  and  umbrella,  pa,"  cried  Miss 
Margaret,  inspired  by  Philip's  earnestness. 

"  My  fair  cousin,  I  guess ;  "  and  as  the  soldier  took 
her  hand,  he  kissed  the  unreluctant  cheek  turned  to 
the  door.  Mr.  Morton  placed  his  arm  in  his,  and  the 
next  moment  they  were  in  the  street. 

When    Catherine,    in    her    meek    tones,    had    said, 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  179 

"Philip  Beaufort  was  my  husband,"  Roger  Morton  had 
disbelieved  her.  And  now  one  word  from  the  son,  who 
could,  in  comparison,  know  so  little  of  the  matter,  had 
almost  sufficed  to  convert  and  to  convince  the  sceptic- 
Why  was  this?     Because  man  believes  the  strong! 


180  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 


CHAPTER   II. 

Quid  Virtus  et  quid  Sapientia  possit 
Utile  proposuit  uobis  exemplar  L/li/ssem.^ 

HOR. 

IMeaxwhile  the  object  of  their  search,  on  quitting  Mv. 
I\Iorton's  shop,  had  walked  slowly  and  sadly  on,  through 
the  plashing  streets,  till  he  came  to  a  public-house  in  the 
outskirts  and  on  the  high-road  to  London.  Here  he 
took  shelter  for  a  short  time,  drying  himself  by  the 
kitchen  fire,  with  the  license  purchased  by  fourpenny- 
"worth  of  gin ;  and,  having  learned  that  the  next  coach  to 
London  would  not  pass  for  some  hours,  he  finallj'  settled 
himself  in  the  ingle  till  the  guard's  horn  should  arouse 
him.  By  the  same  coach  that  the  night  before  had  con- 
veyed  Philip  to  N ,  had  the   very  man  he  sought 

been  also  a  passenger! 

The  poor  fellow  was  sickly  and  wearied  out :  he  had 
settled  into  a  doze,  when  he  w^as  suildenly  wakened  by 
the  wheels  of  a  coach  and  the  trampling  of  horses.  Not 
knowing  how  long  he  had  slept,  and  imagining  that  the 
vehicle  he  had  awaited  was  at  the  door,  he  ran  out.  It 
was  a  coach  coming  from  London,  and  the  driver  was 
joking  with  a  pretty  barmaid,  who,  in  ratlier  short  petti- 
coats, was  holding  up  to  him  the  customary  glass.  The 
man,  after  satisfying  himself  that  his  time  was  not  yet 
come,  was  turning  back  to  the  fire,  when  a  head  popped 
itself  out  of  the  window,  and  a  voice  cried,  "  Stars  and 

1  He  has  proposed  to  us  Ulysses  as  a  useful  example  of  how 
much  may  be  accomplished  ]>y  virtue  aud  wisdom. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  181 

garters !  Will,  —  so  that 's  yo\i !  "  At  the  sound  of  the 
voice  the  man  halted  abruptly,  turned  very  pale,  and  his 
limbs  trembled.  The  inside  passenger  opened  the  door, 
jumped  out  with  a  little  carpet-bag  in  his  hand,  took 
forth  a  long  leathern  purse,  from  which  he  ostentatiously 
selected  the  coins  that  paid  his  fare  and  satisfied  the 
coachman,  and  then,  passing  his  arm  through  that  of 
the  acquaintance  he  had  discovered,  led  him  back  into 
the  house. 

"  Will,  Will, "  he  Avhispered,  "  you  have  been  to  the 
Mortons.  Never  moind, — -let's  hear  all.  Jenny  or 
Dolly,  or  whatever  your  sweet  praetty  name  is,  —  a 
private  room  and  a  pint  of  brandy,  my  dear.  Hot  water 
and  lots  of  the  grocery.      That 's  right." 

And  as  soon  as  the  pair  found  themselves,  Avith  the 
brandy  before  them,  in  a  small  parlor  with  a  good  fire, 
the  last-comer  went  to  the  door,  shut  it  cautiously,  flung 
his  bag  under  the  table,  took  off  his  gloves,  spread  him- 
self wider  and  wider  before  the  fire,  until  he  had  entirely 
excluded  every  ray  from  his  friend,  and  then  suddenly 
turning,  so  that  the  back  might  enjoy  what  the  front  had 
gained,  he  exclaimed, — 

"  Damme,  Will,  you  're  a  praetty  sort  of  a  broather  to 
give  me  the  slip  in  that  way.  But  in  this  world,  every 
man  for  his-self !  " 

"  I  tell  you, "  said  William,  with  something  like  deci- 
sion in  his  voice,  "  that  I  will  not  do  any  wrong  to  these 
young  men  if  they  live. " 

"Who  asks  you  to  do  a  wrong  to  them?  —  booby! 
Perhaps  I  may  be  the  best  friend  they  may  have  yet,  — 
ay,  or  you  too,  though  you  're  the  ungratefullest,  whim- 
sicallest  sort  of  a  son  of  a  gun  that  ever  I  came  across. 
Come,  help  yourself,  and  don't  roll  up  your  eyes  in 
that  way,  like  a  Muggletonian  asoide  of  a  Fye-Fye!  " 


182  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

Here  the  speaker  paused  a  moment,  and  -with  a  graver 
and  more  natural  tone  of  voice  proceeded. 

"  So  you  did  not  believe  me  when  I  told  you  that  these 
brothers  were  dead,  and  you  have  been  to  the  Mortons  to 
learn  more  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  and  what  have  you  learned  1  " 

"  Nothing.  Morton  declares  that  he  does  not  know 
that  they  are  alive,  but  he  says  also  that  he  does  not 
know  that  they  are  dead." 

"Indeed,"  said  the  other,  listening  with  great  atten- 
tion ;  "  and  you  really  think  that  he  does  not  know 
anything  about  them  1  " 

"Tdo,  indeed." 

"  Hum !  Is  he  a  sort  of  man  who  would  post  down 
the  rhino  to  help  the  search  ?  " 

"  He  looked  as  if  he  had  the  yellow  fever  when  I  said 
I  was  poor,"  returned  William,  turning  round,  and 
trying  to  catch  a  glimpse  at  the  fire,  as  he  gulped  his 
brandy-and-water. 

"  Then  I  '11  be  d— d  if  I  run  the  risk  of  calling.  I 
have  done  some  things  in  tliis  town  by  way  of  business 
before  now;  and  though  it  's  a  long  time  ago,  yet  folks 
don't  forget  a  haundsome  man  in  a  hurry,  — especially 
if  he  has  done  'em!  Now,  then,  listen  to  me.  You 
see,  I  have  given  this  matter  all  the  'tention  in  my 
power.  '  If  the  lads  be  dead,*  said  I  to  you,  *  it  is  no 
use  burning  one's  fingers  by  holding  a  candle  to  bones 
in  a  coffin.  But  Mr.  Beaufort  need  not  know  they  are 
dead,  and  we'll  see  what  we  can  get  out  of  him;  and  if 
I  succeeds,  as  I  think  I  shall,  you  and  I  may  hold  up 
our  heads  for  the  rest  of  our  life.'  Accordingly,  as  I 
told  you,  I  went  to  Mr.  Beaufort,  and  —  'Gad,  I  thought 
we  had  it  all  our  own  way.     But  since  I  saw  .you  last, 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  183 

there  's  been  the  devil  and  all.  When  I  called  again, 
"Will,  I  was  shown  in  to  an  old  lord,  sharp  as  a  gimlet. 
Hang  me,  William,  if  he  did  not  frighten  me  out  of 
my  seven  senses!  " 

Here  Captain  Smith  (the  reader  has,  no  doubt,  already 
discovered  that  the  speaker  was  no  less  a  personage)  took 
three  or  four  nervous  strides  across  the  room,  returned 
to  the  table,  threw  himself  in  a  chair,  placed  one  foot 
on  one  hob  and  one  on  the  other,  laid  his  finger  on  his 
nose,  and,  with  a  significant  wink,  said  in  a  whisper, 
"Will,  he  knew  I  had  been  lagged!  He  not  only 
refused  to  hear  all  I  had  to  say,  but  threatened  to  prose- 
cute, persecute,  hang,  draw,  and  quarter  us  both,  if  we 
ever  dared  to  come  out  with  the  truth." 

"  But  what  's  the  good  of  the  truth  if  the  boys  are 
dead?  "  said  William,  timidly. 

The  captain,  without  heeding  this  question,  con- 
tinued, as  he  stirred  the  sugar  in  his  glass,  "  Well,  out 
I  sneaked,  and  as  soon  as  I  had  got  to  my  own  door  I 
turned  round  and  saw  Sharp  the  runner  on  the  other  side 
of  the  way,  —  I  felt  deuced  queer.  However,  I  went  in, 
sat  down,  and  began  to  think.  I  saw  that  it  was  up 
with  us,  so  far  as  the  old  uns  were  concerned;  and  now 
it  might  be  worth  while  to  find  out  if  the  young  uns 
really  were  dead." 

"  Then  you  did  not  know  that  after  all !  I  thought 
so.      Oh,  Jerry!" 

"  Why,  look  you,  man,  it  was  not  our  interest  to  take 
their  side  if  we  could  make  our  bargain  out  of  the  other. 
'Cause  why  ?  You  are  only  one  witness,  —  you  are  a 
good  fellow,  but  poor,  and  with  very  shaky  nerves. 
Will.  You  does  not  know  what  them  big  wigs  are 
when  a  man  's  caged  in  a  witness-box,  —  they  flank  one 
up,  and  they  flank  one  down,  and  they  bully  and  bother, 


184  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

till  one  's  like  a  horse  at  Astley's  dancing  on  hot  iron. 
If  your  testimony  broke  down,  why  it  Avould  be  all 
up  with  the  case,  and  what  then  would  become  of  us? 
Besides,"  added  the  captain,  with  dignified  candor,  "  I 
have  been  lagged,  it  's  no  use  denying  it;  I  am  back 
before  my  time.  Inquiries  about  your  respectability 
would  soon  bring  the  bulkies  about  me.  And  you  would 
not  have  poor  Jerry  sent  back  to  that  d — d  low  place  on 
t'  other  side  of  the  Herring-pond,  would  you?  " 

"  Ah,  Jerry!  "  said  William,  kindly  placing  his  hand 
in  his  brother's,  "  you  know  I  helped  you  to  escape ;  I 
left  all  to  come  over  with  you." 

"  So  you  did,  and  you  're  a  good  fellow;  though  as  to 
leaving  all,  why  you  had  got  rid  of  all  first.  And 
when  you  told  me  about  the  marriage,  did  not  I  say  that 
I  saw  our  way  to  a  snug  thing  for  life  1  But  to  return 
to  my  story.  There  is  a  danger  in  going  with  the 
youngsters.  But  since,  Will,  —  since  nothing  but  hard 
words  is  to  be  got  on  the  other  side,  we  '11  do  our  duty, 
and  I  '11  find  them  out,  and  do  the  best  I  can  for  us :  that 
is,  if  they  be  yet  above  ground.  And  now  I  '11  own  to 
you  that  I  think  I  knows  that  the  younger  one  is  alive." 

"  You  do  ?  " 

"  Yes!  But  as  he  won't  come  in  for  anything  unless 
his  brother  is  dead,  we  must  have  a  hunt  for  the  heir. 
Now  1  told  you  that,  many  years  ago,  there  was  a  lad 
with  me,  who,  putting  all  things  together,  —  seeing  how 
the  Beauforts  came  after  him,  and  recollecting  different 
things  he  let  out  at  the  time,  —  I  feel  pretty  sure  is  your 
old  master  's  hopeful.  I  know  that  poor  Will  Gawtrey 
gave  this  lad  the  address  of  old  Gregg,  a  friend  of  mine. 
So,  after  watching  Sharp  off  the  sly,  I  went  that  very 
night,  or  rather  at  two  in  the  morning,  to  Gregg's 
house,  and,  after  brushing  up  his  memory,  I  found  that 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  185 

the  lad  had  been  to  him,  and  gone  over  afterwards  to 
l*aris  in  search  of  Gawtrey,  who  was  then  keeping  a 
matrimony  shop.  As  I  was  not  rich  enougli  to  go  off  to 
Paris  in  a  pleasant,  gentlemanlike  way,  I  allowed  Gregg 
to  put  me  up  to  a  noice,  quiet  little  bit  of  business. 
Don't  shake  your  head:  all  safe,  —  a  rural  affair!  That 
took  some  days.  You  see  it  has  helped  to  new  rig  me," 
and  the  captain  glanced  complacently  over  a  very  smart 
suit  of  clothes.  "  Well,  on  my  return  I  went  to  call 
on  you,  but  you  were  flown.  I  half  suspected  you 
might  have  gone  to  the  mother's  relations  here;  and  I 
thought,  at  all  events,  that  I  could  not  do  better  than 
go  myself  and  see  what  they  knew  of  the  matter.  From 
what  you  say  I  feel  I  had  better  now  let  that  alone ,  and 
go  over  to  Paris  at  once;  leave  me  alone  to  find  out. 
And  faith,  what  with  Sharp  and  the  old  lord,  the  sooner 
I  quit  England  the  better. " 

"  And  you  really  think  you  shall  get  hold  of  them 
after  all  ?  Oh,  never  fear  my  nerves  if  I  'm  once  in  the 
riglit;  it's  living  with  you,  and  seeing  j^ou  do  wrong, 
and  hearing  you  talk  wickedly,  that  makes  me  tremble." 

"  Bother!  "  said  the  captain,  "  you  need  not  crow  over 
me.  Stand  up.  Will;  there  now,  look  at  us  two  in  the 
glass!  Why,  I  look  ten  years  younger  than  you  do,  in 
spite  of  all  my  troubles.  I  dress  like  a  gentleman,  as 
1  am;  1  have  money  in  my  pocket:  I  put  money  in 
yours;  without  me  you  'd  starve.  Look  you,  you  carried 
over  a  little  fortune  to  Australia:  you  married,  you 
farmed,  you  lived  honestly,  —  and  yet  that  d— d  shilly- 
shally disposition  of  yours,  'ticed  into  one  speculation 
to-day,  and  scared  out  of  another  to-morrow,  ruined 
you !  " 

"Jerry!  Jerry!"   cried  William,  writhing;   "don't, 
—  don't!" 


186  NIGHT   AND    MOKNING. 

"  But  it 's  all  true,  and  I  wants  to  cure  you  of  preach- 
ing. And  then,  when  you  were  nearly  run  out,  instead 
of  putting  a  bold  face  on  it,  and  setting  your  shoulder 
to  the  wheel,  you  gives  it  up;  you  sells  what  you  have; 
you  bolts  over,  wife  and  all,  to  Boston,  because  some 
one  tells  you  you  can  do  better  in  America;  you  are 
out  of  the  way  when  a  search  is  made  for  you ;  years  ago, 
when  you  could  have  benefited  yourself  and  your 
master's  family  without  any  danger  to  you  or  me,  nobody 
can  find  you :  'cause  why  ?  —  you  could  not  bear  that  your 
old  friends  in  England,  or  in  the  colony  either,  should 
know  that  you  were  turned  a  slave-driver  in  Kentucky. 
You  kick  up  a  mutiny  among  the  niggers  by  moaning 
over  them  instead  of  keeping  'em  to  it;  you  get  kicked 
out  yourself;  your  wife  begs  you  to  go  back  to  Australia, 
where  her  relations  will  do  something  for  you ;  you  work 
your  passage  out,  looking  as  ragged  as  a  colt  from  grass; 
Avife's  uncle  don't  like  ragged  nephews-in-law;  wife 
dies  broken-hearted,  —  and  you  might  be  breaking  stones 
on  the  roads  with  the  convicts,  if  I,  myself  a  convict, 
had  not  taken  compassion  on  you.  Don't  cry,  Will,  it 
is  all  for  your  own  good;  I  hates  cant!  Whereas  I, 
my  own  master  from  eighteen,  never  stooped  to  serve 
any  other;  have  dressed  like  a  gentleman;  kissed  the 
pretty  girls;  drove  my  phe-«ton;  been  in  all  the  papers 
as  'the  celebrated  Dashing  Jerry;'  never  wanted  a 
guinea  in  my  pocket,  and  even  when  lagged  at  last,  had 
a  pretty  little  sum  in  the  colonial  bank  to  lighten  my 
misfortunes.  I  escape;  I  bring  you  over,  —  and  here  I 
am,  supporting  you,  and,  in  all  probability,  the  one  on 
whom  depends  the  fate  of  one  of  the  first  families  in  the 
country.  And  you  preaches  at  me,  do  you?  Look  you, 
Will:  in  this  world,  honesty  's  nothing  without  force  of 
character!     And  so  your  health!  " 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  187 

Here  the  captain  emptied  the  rest  of  the  brandy 
into  his  glass,  drained  it  at  a  draught,  and,  while  poor 
William  was  wiping  his  eyes  with  a  ragged  blue  pocket- 
handkerchief,    rang    the    bell,  and    asked  what  coaches 

would  pass  tliat  way  to  ,  a  seaport  town  at  some 

distance.  On  hearing  that  there  was  one  at  six  o'clock, 
the  captain  orderetl  the  best  dinner  the  larder  would 
afford  to  be  got  ready  as  soon  as  possible;  and,  when 
they  were  again  alone,  thus  accosted  his  brother,  — 

"  Now  you  go  back  to  town,  —  here  are  four  shiners 
for  you.  Keep  quiet,  —  don't  speak  to  a  soul;  don't 
put  your  foot  in  it,  that  's  all  I  beg,  and  I  '11  find  out 
whatever  there  is  to  be  found.      It  is  damnably  out  of 

my  way  embarking  at ,  but  I  had  best  keep  clear  of 

Lunnon.  And  I  tell  you  what,  if  these  youngsters  have 
hopped  the  twig,  there  's  another  bird  on  the  bough 
that  may  prove  a  goldfinch  after  all, — young  Arthur 
Beaufort.  I  hear  he  is  a  wild,  expensive  chap,  and  one 
who  can't  live  without  lots  of  money.  Now,  it 's  easy 
to  frighten  a  man  of  that  sort,  and  I  sha'n't  have  the 
old  lord  at  his  elbow." 

"  But  I  tell  you,  that  I  only  care  for  m}'  poor  master's 
children." 

"Yes;  but  if  they  are  dead,  and  by  saying  they  are 
alive  one  can  make  old  age  comfortable,  there  's  no 
harm  in  it,  —  eh?  " 

"1  don't  know,"  said  William,  irresolutely.  "But 
certainly  it  is  a  hard  thing  to  be  so  poor  at  my  time  of 
life;  and  so  honest  a  man  as  I  've  been,  too!  " 

Captain  Smith  went  a  little  too  far  when  he  said  that 
"honesty's  nothing  without  force  of  character."  Still 
honesty  has  no  business  to  be  helpless  and  draggle- 
tailed:  she  must  be  actiA'^e  and  brisk,  and  make  use  of 
her  Avits;  or,  though  she  keep  clear  of  the  prison,  'tis 
no  verjr  great  wonder  if  she  fall  on  the  parish. 


188  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 


CHAPTER   III. 

MItis.  — This  Macilente,  signior,  begins  to  be  more  sociable  on  a 
sudden. —  Every  Man  out  of  his  Humor. 

Pniit.  —  Signior,  you  are  sufficiently  instructed. 
Fast  —  Wlio  —  1,  sir  1 

Ibid. 

After  spending  the  greater  part  of  the  day  in  vain 
inquiries  and  a  vain  search,  Philip  and  Mr.  Morton 
returned  to  tlie  house  of  the  latter. 

"  And  now,"  said  Philip,  "  all  that  remains  to  be  done 
is  this:  first,  give  to  the  police  of  the  town  a  detailed 
description  of  the  man;  and,  secondly,  let  us  put  an 
advertisement  both  in  the  county  journal  and  in  some 
of  the  London  papers,  to  the  effect,  that  if  tlie  person 
who  called  on  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  apply  again, 
either  personally  or  by  letter,  he  may  obtain  the  infor- 
mation sought  for.  In  case  he  does,  I  will  trouble  you 
to  direct  him  to  —  yes,  to  Monsieur  de  Vaudemont, 
according  to  liiis  address." 

"  Not  to  you,  then  1  " 

"  It  is  the  same  thing,"  replied  Philip,  dryly,  "  You 
have  confirmed  my  suspicions  that  the  P>eauforts  know 
something  of  my  brother.  What  did  you  say  of  some 
other  friend  of  the  family  who  assisted  in  the  search?  " 

"Oh,  a  Mr.  Spencer  I  an  old  acquaintance  of  your 
mother's."  Here  Mr.  Morton  smiled,  but  not  being 
encouraged  in  a  joke,  went  on,  —  "however,  that's 
neither  here  nor  there;  he  certainly  never  found  out 
your  brother.      For  I  have  had  several  letters  from  him 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  189 

at  different  times,  asking  if  any  news  had  been  heard  of 
either  of  you." 

And,  indeed,  Spencer  had  taken  peculiar  pains  to 
deceive  the  Mortons,  whose  interposition  he  feared  little 
less  than  that  of  the  Beauforts. 

"Then  it  can  be  of  no  vise  to  apply  to  him,"  said 
Philip,  carelessly,  not  having  any  recollection  of  the 
name  of  Spencer,  and  therefore  attaching  little  import- 
ance to  the  mention  of  him. 

"  Certainly,  I  should  think  not.  Depend  on  it,  Mr. 
Beaufort  must  know. " 

"  True,"  said  Philip,  "and  I  have  only  to  thank  you 
for  your  kindness,  and  return  to  town. " 

"  But  stay  with  us  this  day,  —  do ;  let  me  feel  that  we 
are  friends.  I  assure  you  poor  Sidney's  fate  has  been 
a  load  on  my  mind  ever  since  he  left.  You  shall  have 
the  bed  he  slept  in,  and  over  which  your  mother  bent 
when  she  left  him  and  me  for  the  last  time." 

These  words  were  said  with  so  much  feeling  that  the 
adventurer  wrung  his  uncle's  hand,  and  said,  "  Forgive 
me;  I  wronged  you,  —  I  will  be  your  guest." 

Mrs.  Morton,  strange  to  say,  evinced  no  symptoms 
of  ill-humor  at  the  news  of  the  proffered  hospitality. 
In  fact.  Miss  Margaret  had  been  so  eloquent  in  Philip's 
praise  during  his  absence,  that  she  suffered  herself  to 
be  favorably  impressed.  Her  daughter,  indeed,  had  ob- 
tained a  sort  of  ascendency  over  ]\Irs.  j\I.  and  the  whole 
house,  ever  since  she  had  received  so  excellent  an  offer. 
And,  moreover,  some  people  are  like  dogs,  —  they  snarl 
at  the  ragged  and  fawn  on  the  well-dressed.  Mrs. 
Morton  did  not  object  to  a  nephew  de  facto,  she  only 
objected  to  a  nephew  in  forma,  pauperis.  The  evening, 
therefore,  passed  more  cheerfully  than  might  have  been 
anticipated,    though    Philip   found   some   difficulty    in 


190  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

parrying  the  many  questions  put  to  him  on  the  past. 
He  contented  himself  with  saying,  as  briefly  as  possible, 
that  he  had  served  in  a  foreign  service,  and  acquired 
what  sufficed  him  for  an  independence;  and  then,  with 
the  ease  which  a  man  picks  up  in  the  great  world, 
turned  the  conversation  to  the  prospects  of  the  family 
whose  guest  he  was.  Having  listened  with  due  atten- 
tion to  Mrs.  Morton's  eulogies  on  Tom,  who  had  been 
sent  for,  and  who  drank  the  praises  on  his  own  gentility 
into  a  very  large  pair  of  blushing  ears ;  also,  to  her  self- 
felicitations  on  Miss  INIargaret's  marriage;  item,  on  the 
service  rendered  to  the  town  by  Mr.  Roger,  who  had 
repaired  the  town-hall  in  his  first  mayoralty  at  his  own 
expense ;  item,  to  a  long  chronicle  of  her  own  genealogy, 
how  she  had  one  cousin  a  clergyman,  and  how  her  great- 
grandfather had  been  knighted;  item,  to  the  domestic 
virtues  of  all  her  children;  item,  to  a  confused  explana- 
tion of  the  chastisement  inflicted  on  Sidney,  which 
Philip  cut  short  in  the  middle, — he  asked,  with  a 
smile,  what  had  become  of  the  Plaskwiths.  "  Oh,"  said 
Mrs.  Morton,  "  my  brother  Kit  has  retired  from  business. 
His  son-in-law,  Mr.  Pliramins,  has  succeeded." 

"Oh,  then,  Plimmins  married  one  of  the  young 
ladies?" 

"Yes,  Jane,  —  she  had  a  sad  squint!  Tom,  there  is 
nothing  to  laugh  at!  —  we  are  all  as  God  made  us. 
'  Handsome  is  as  handsome  does;  '  she  has  had  three 
little  uns!" 

"Do  they  squint  too?"  asked  Philip;  and  Miss 
Margaret  giggled,  and  Tom  roared,  and  the  other  young 
men  roared  too.  Philip  had  certainly  said  something 
very  witty. 

This  time  Mrs.  Morton  administered  no  reproof;  but 
replied  pensively,  — 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  191 

"  Natur  is  very  mysterious,  — they  all  squint!  " 

Mr.  Morton  conducted  Philip  to  his  chamber.  There 
it  was,  fresh,  clean,  unaltered, — the  same  white  cur- 
tains, the  same  honeysuckle  paper,  as  when  Catherine 
had  crept  across  the  tlireshold. 

"  Did  Sidney  ever  tell  you  that  his  mother  placed  a 
ring  round  his  neck  that  night  1  "  asked  Mr.  Morton. 

"Yes;  and  the  dear  boy  wept  when  he  said  that  he 
had  slept  too  soundly  to  know  that  she  was  by  his 
side  that  last,  last  time.  The  ring,  — oh,  how  well  I 
remember  it!  —  she  never  put  it  off  till  then;  and  often 
in  the  fields,  —  for  we  were  wild  wanderers  together 
in  that  day ,  —  often  when  his  head  lay  on  my  shoulder, 
I  felt  that  ring  still  resting  on  his  heart,  and  fancied 
it  was  a  talisman, — a  blessing.  Well,  well,  good- 
night to  you!  "  And  he  shut  the  door  on  his  uncle, 
and  was  alone. 


192  KIGHT   AND    MORNING. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  Man  of  Law,  .  .  . 

And  a  great  suit  is  like  to  be  between  them. 

Ben  Jonson  :  Staple  of  News. 

Ox  arriving  in  London,  Philip  went  first  to  the  lodging 
he  still  kept  there,  and  to  which  his  letters  were  directed; 
and,  among  some  communications  from  Paris,  full  of 
the  politics  and  the  hopes  of  the  Carlists,  he  found  the 
following  note  from  Lord  Lilburne :  — 

Dear  Sir,  —  When  I  met  you  the  other  day,  I  told  you  1 
had  been  threatened  with  the  f,'out.  The  enemy  has  now 
taken  possession  of  the  field.  I  am  sentenced  to  regimen  and 
the  sofa.  But  as  it  is  my  rule  in  life  to  make  afflictions  as 
light  as  possible,  so  I  have  asked  a  few  friends  to  take  com- 
passion on  me,  and  help  me  "  to  shuffle  off  this  mortal  coil," 
by  dealing  me,  if  they  can,  four  by  honors.  Any  time  between 
nine  and  twelve  to-night,  or  to-morrow  night,  you  will  find 
me  at  home  ;  and,  if  you  are  not  better  engaged,  suppose  you 
dine  ^vith  me  to-day,  —  or  rather  dine  opposite  to  me,  —  and 
excuse  my  Spartan  broth.  You  will  meet  (besides  any  two 
or  three  friends  whom  an  impromptu  invitation  may  find  dis- 
engaged) ray  sister,  with  Beaufort  and  their  daughter  :  they 
only  arrived  in  town  this  morning,  and  are  kind  enough  "to 
nurse  me,"  as  they  call  it,  —  that  is  to  say,  their  cook  is  taken 

ill! 

Yours, 

Lilburne. 

Park  Lake,  Sept.  — 

"  The  Beauforts.     Fate  favors  me,  —  I  will  go.     The 
date  is  for  to-day." 


NIGHT   AND    MOIiXIXG.  193 

He  sent  off  a  hasty  line  to  accept  the  invitation,  and 
finding  he  had  a  few  hours  yet  to  spare,  he  resolved  to 
employ  them  in  consultation  with  some  lawyer  as  to 
the  chances  of  ultimately  regaining  his  inheritance,  — 
a  hope  which,  however  wild,  he  had,  since  his  return 
to  his  native  shore,  and  especially  since  he  had  heard 
of  tlie  strange  visit  made  to  Koger  Morton,  permitted 
himself  to  indulge.  With  this  idea  he  sallied  out, 
meaning  to  consult  Liancourt,  wlio,  having  a  large 
acquaintance  among  the  English,  seemed  the  best  person 
to  advise  him  as  to  the  choice  of  a  lawyer  at  once  active 
and  honest,  when  he  suddenly  chanced  upon  that  gentle- 
man himself. 

"  This  is  luck}',  my  dear  Liancourt.  I  was  just 
going  to  your  lodgings." 

"  And  I  was  coming  to  yours  to  know  if  you  dine  with 
Lord  Lilburne.  He  told  me  he  had  asked  you.  I  have 
just  left  him.  And  by  the  sofa  of  Mephistopheles, 
there  was  the  prettiest  Margaret  you  ever  beheld. " 

"Indeed!  — Who?" 

"  He  called  her  his  niece ;  but  I  should  doubt  if  he 
had  any  relation  on  this  side  the  Styx  so  human  as  a 
niece. " 

"  You  seem  to  have  no  great  predilection  for  our  host. " 

"  My  dear  Vaudemont,  between  our  blunt,  soldierly 
natures,  and  tliose  wily,  icy,  sneering  intellects,  there  is 
the  antipathy  of  the  dog  to  the  cat. " 

"  Perhaps  so  on  our  side,  not  on  his,  —  or  why  does  he 
invite  us  ?  " 

"  London  is  empty,  there  is  no  one  else  to  ask.  We 
are  new  faces,  new  minds  to  him.  We  amuse  him  more 
than  the  hackneyed  comrades  he  has  Avorn  out.  Besides, 
he  plays,  —  and  you  too.     Fie  on  you !  " 

"  Liancourt,  I  had  two  objects  in  knowing  that  man, 

VOL.  II.  — 13 


194  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

and  I  pay  tlie  toll  for  the  bridge.  "When  I  cease  to  want 
the  passage,  I  shall  cease  to  pay  the  toll. " 

"  But  the  bridge  may  be  a  drawbridge,  and  the  moat 
is  devilish  deep  below.  "Without  metaphor,  that  man 
maj'  ruin  you  before  you  know  where  you  are." 

"  Bah !  I  have  my  eyes  open.  I  know  hoAV  much  to 
spend  on  the  rogue,  whose  service  I  hire  as  a  lackey's; 
and  I  know  also  where  to  stop.  Liancourt, "  he  added, 
after  a  short  pause,  and  in  a  tone  deep  Avith  suppressed 
passion,  "  when  I  first  saw  that  man  I  thought  of  appeal- 
ing to  his  heart  for  one  who  has  a  claim  on  it.  That  Avas 
a  vain  hope.  And  then  there  came  upon  me  a  sterner 
and  deadlier  thought, —  the  scheme  of  the  avenger! 
This  Lilburne,  this  rogue  Avhom  the  Avorld  sets  up  to 
worship,  ruined  —  body  and  soul  ruined  —  one  Avhose 
name  the  world  gibbets  with  scorn!  Well,  I  thought  to 
avenge  that  man.  In  his  own  house  —  amidst  you  all  — 
I  thought  to  detect  the  sharper  and  brand  the  cheat!  '' 

"You.  startle  me!  It  has  been  whispered,  indeed, 
that  Lord  Lilburne  is  dangerous, —  but  skill  is  danger- 
ous. To  cheat !  —  an  English  gentleman !  —  a  nobleman ! 
Impossible !  " 

"  Whetlier  he  do  or  not, "  returned  Vauderaont,  in  a 
calmer  tone ,  "  I  have  foregone  the  vengeance,  because 
he  is  —  " 

"Is  what?" 

"  Xo  matter, "  said  Vaudemont  aloud,  but  he  added  to 
himself,  "  Because  he  is  the  grandfather  of  Fanny!  " 

"  You  are  very  enigmatical  to-day. " 

"  Patience,  Liancourt;  I  may  solve  all  the  riddles  that 
make  up  my  life,  yet.  Bear  with  me  a  little  longer. 
And  now  can  j^ou  help  me  to  a  lawyer  ?  —  a  man  expe- 
rienced, indeed,  and  of  repute,  but  young,  active,  not 
overladen  with  business ;  I  want  his  zeal  and  his  time, 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  195 

for  a  hazard  that  j-our  monopolists  of  clients  may  not 
deem  worth  their  devotion." 

"  I  can  recommend  you,  then,  the  very  man  yon 
require.  I  had  a  suit  some  years  ago  at  Paris,  for  which 
English  witnesses  were  necessary.  My  avocat  employed, 
a  solicitor  here  whose  activity  in  collecting  my  evidence 
gained  my  cause.  I  will  answer  for  his  diligence  and. 
his  honesty." 

"  His  address  1  " 

"  Mr.  Barlow,  —  somewhere  by  the  Strand :  let  me  see, 
.Essex  —  yes,  Essex  Street. " 

"  Then  good-by  to  you  for  the  present.  You  dine  at 
Lord  Lilburne's,  too  ?  " 

"Yes.     Adieu  tiU  then." 

Vaudemont  was  not  long  before  he  arrived  at  Mr. 
Barlow's ;  a  brass  plate  announced  to  him  the  house. 
He  was  shown  at  once  into  a  parlor,  where  he  saw  a 
man  whom  lawyers  would  call  young,  and  spinsters 
middle-aged,  —  namely,  about  two-and-forty  ;  with  a  bold, 
resolute,  intelligent  countenance,  and  that  steady,  calm, 
sagacious  eye  which  inspires  at  once  confidence  and 
esteem. 

Vaudemont  scanned  him  with  the  look  of  one  who 
has  been  accustomed  to  judge  mankind  —  as  a  scholar 
does  books  —  with  rapidity  because  with  practice.  He 
had  at  first  resolved  to  submit  to  him  the  heads  of  his 
case  without  mentioning  names,  and,  in  fact,  he  so  com- 
menced his  narrative ;  but,  by  degrees,  as  he  perceived 
how  much  his  own  earnestness  arrested  and  engrossed 
the  interest  of  his  listener,  he  warmed  into  fuller  con- 
fidence, and  ended  by  a  full  disclosure,  and  a  caution  as 
to  the  profoundest  secrecy,  in  case,  if  there  were  no  hope 
to  recover  his  rightful  name,  he  might  yet  wish  to  retain, 
unannoyed  by  curiosity  or  suspicion,  that  by  which  he 
was  not  discreditably  known. 


19G  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

"  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Barlow,  after  assuring  him  of  the 
most  scnipuloiis  discretion, — "sir,  I  have  some  recol- 
lection of  the  trial  instituted  hy  your  motlier,  Mrs. 
Beaufort, "  —  and  the  slight  emphasis  he  laid  on  that 
name  was  the  most  grateful  compliment  he  could  have 
paid  to  the  truth  of  Philip's  recital.  "  My  impression 
IS,  that  it  was  managed  in  a  very  slovenly  manner  by 
her  lawyer;  and  some  of  his  oversights  we  may  repair 
in  a  suit  instituted  by  yourself.  But  it  would  be  absurd 
to  conceal  from  you  the  great  difficulties  that  beset  us: 
your  mother's  suit,  designed  to  establish  her  own  rights, 
was  far  easier  than  that  which  you  must  commence ,  — 
namely,  an  action  for  ejectment  against  a  man  who  has 
been  some  years  in  undisturbed  possession.  Of  course, 
until  the  missing  witness  is  found  out;  it  would  be  mad- 
ness to  commence  litigation.  And  the  question,  then, 
will  be,  how  far  that  witness  will  suffice?  It  is  true, 
that  one  witness  of  a  marriage,  if  the  others  are  dead,  is 
held  sufficient  by  law.  But  I  need  not  add,  that  that 
witness  must  be  thoroughly  credible.  In  suits  for  real 
property,  very  little  documentary  or  secondary  evidence 
is  admitted.  I  doubt  even  whether  the  certificate  of  the 
marriage  on  which  —  in  the  loss  or  destruction  of  the 
register  —  you  lay  so  much  stress,  would  be  available  in 
itself.  But  if  a7i  examined  copy,  it  becomes  of  the  last 
importance,  for  it  will  then  inform  us  of  the  name  of  the 
person  who  extracted  and  examined  it.  Heaven  grant 
it  may  not  have  been  the  clergyman  himself  who  per- 
formed the  ceremony,  and  who,  you  say,  is  dead ;  if  some 
one  else,  we  should  then  have  a  second,  no  doubt  credi- 
ble and  most  valuable  witness.  The  document  would 
thus  become  available  as  proof,  and  I  think  that  we  should 
not  fail  to  establish  our  case. " 

"But  this  certificate,  how  is  it  ever  to  be  foimd?     I 
told  you  we  had  searched  everywhere  in  vain." 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  197 

"  True ;  hut  you  say  that  your  mother  always  declared 
that  the  late  Mr.  Beaufort  had  so  solemnly  assured  her, 
even  just  prior  to  his  decease,  that  it  was  in  existence, 
that  I  have  no  douht  as  to  the  fact.  It  may  he  possible, 
but  it  is  a  terrible  insinuation  to  make,  that  if  INIr. 
Robert  Beaufort,  in  examining  the  papers  of  the 
deceased,  chanced  upon  a  document  so  important  to  him, 
he  abstracted  or  destroyed  it.  If  tliis  should  not  have 
been  the  case  (and  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort's  moral  character 
is  unspotted,  — and  we  have  no  right  to  suppose  it),  the 
probability  is,  either  that  it  was  intrusted  to  some  third 
person,  or  placed  in  some  hidden  drawer  or  deposit,  the 
secret  of  which  your  father  never  disclosed.  Who  has 
purchased  the  house  you  lived  in  1  " 

"Fernside?  Lord  Lilburne,  Mrs.  Robert  Beaufort's 
brother. " 

"Humph! — probably,  then,  he  took  the  furniture 
and  all.  Sir,  this  is  a  matter  that  requires  some  time 
for  close  consideration.  With  your  leave  I  will  not 
only  insert  in  the  London  papers  an  advertisement  to 
the  effect  that  you  suggested  to  Mr.  Roger  Morton  (in 
case  you  should  have  made  a  right  conjecture  as  to  the 
object  of  the  man  who  applied  to  him),  but  I  will  also 
advertise  for  the  witness  himself.  William  Smith,  you 
say,  his  name  is.  Did  the  lawyer  employed  by  Mrs. 
Beaufort  send  to  inquire  for  him  in  the  colony  1  " 

"  No ;  I  fear  there  could  not  have  been  time  for  that. 
My  mother  was  so  anxious  and  eager,  and  so  convinced 
of  the  justice  of  her  case  —  " 

"That's  a  pity;  her  lawyer  must  have  been  a  sad 
driveller." 

"  Besides,  now  I  remember,  inquiry  was  made  of  his 
relations  in  England.  His  father,  a  farmer,  was  then 
alive;  the   answer  was   that  he  had  certainly  left  Aus- 


198  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

tralia.  His  last  letter,  written  two  years  before  that 
date,  containing  a  request  for  money,  which  the  father, 
himself  made  a  bankrupt  by  reverses,  could  not  give, 
had  stated,  that  he  was  about  to  seek  his  fortune  else- 
where, —  since  then  tliey  had  heard  nothing  of  him." 

"  Ahem!  Well,  you  will  perhaps  let  me  know  where 
any  relations  of  his  are  yet  to  be  found,  and  I  will  look 
up  the  former  suit,  and  go  into  the  whole  case  without 
delay.  In  the  mean  time,  you  do  right,  sir,  —  if  you 
will  allow  me  to  say  it,  —  not  to  disclose  either  your 
own  identity  or  a  hint  of  your  intentions.  It  is  no  use 
putting  suspicion  on  its  guard.  And  my  search  for  this 
certificate  must  be  managed  with  the  greatest  address. 
But,  by  the  way,  speaking  of  identity,  —  there  can  be 
no  difficulty,  I  hope,  in  proving  yours?  " 

Philip  was  startled.     "  Why,  I  am  greatly  altered." 

"  But,  probably,  your  beard  and  mustache  may  con- 
tribute to  that  change;  and  doubtless,  in  the  village 
where  you  lived,  there  would  be  many  with  whom  you 
were  in  sufficient  intercourse,  and  on  whose  recollection, 
by  recalling  little  anecdotes  and  circumstances  with 
which  no  one  but  yourself  could  be  acquainted,  your 
features  would  force  themselves,  along  Avith  the  moral 
conviction  that  the  man  who  spoke  to  tliem  could  be  no 
other  but  Philip  Morton,  — or  rather  Beaufort." 

"You  are  right;  there  must  be  many  such.  There 
was  not  a  cottage  in  the  place  where  I  and  my  dogs  were 
not  familiar  and  half  domesticated." 

"All  's  right,  so  far,  then.  But,  I  repeat,  we  must 
not  be  too  sanguine.     Law  is  not  justice  —  " 

"But  God  is,"  said  Philip;  and  he  left  the  room. 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  199 


CHAPTER  V. 

Volpone.  — A  little  in  a  mist,  but  not  dejected : 
Never,  —  but  still  myself. 

Ben  Jonson  :   Volpone. 

Peregrine.  —  Am  I  enough  disguised  ? 
Mer.  —  Ay,  I  warrant  you. 
Per.  —  Save  you,  fair  lady. 

Ibid. 

It  is  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody  good.  The  ill  wind 
that  had  blown  gout  to  Lord  Lilburne  had  blown  Lord 
Lilburne  away  from  the  injury  he  had  meditated  against 
what  he  called  "the  object  of  his  attachment."  How 
completely  and  entirely,  indeed,  the  state  of  Lord  Lil- 
burne's  feelings  depended  on  the  state  of  his  health, 
may  be  seen  in  the  answer  he  gave  to  his  valet,  when, 
the  morning  after  the  first  attack  of  the  gout,  that  worthy 
person,  by  way  of  cheering  his  master,  proposed  to  ascer- 
tain something  as  to  tlie  movements  of  one  with  whom 
Lord  Lilburne  professed  to  be  so  violently  in  love, 
"Confound  you,  Dykeman!  "  exclaimed  the  invalid, — 
"  why  do  you  trouble  me  about  women  when  I  'm  in  this 
condition?  I  don't  care  if  they  were  all  at  the  bottom 
of  the  sea!  Reach  me  the  colchicum;  I  must  keep  my 
mind  calm." 

Whenever  tolerably  well,  Lord  Lilburne  was  careless 
of  his  health;  the  moment  he  was  ill.  Lord  Lilburne 
paid  himself  the  greatest  possible  attention.  Though 
a  man  of  tirni  nerves,  in  youth  of  remarkable  daring, 
and  still,  though  no  longer  rash,  of  sufficient  personal 
courage,  he    was  by  no  means    fond  of  the   thought  of 


200  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

death,  —  that  is,  of  his  own  death.  Not  that  he  was 
tormented  by  any  religious  apprehensions  of  the  Dread 
Unknown,  but  simply  because  the  only  life  of  which 
he  had  any  experience  seemed  to  him  a  peculiarly 
pleasant  thing.  He  had  a  sort  of  instinctive  persuasion 
that  John,  Lord  Lilburne,  would  not  be  better  off  any- 
where else.  Always  disliking  solitude,  he  disliked  it 
more  than  ever  when  he  was  ill,  and  he  therefore 
welcomed  the  visit  of  his  sister,  and  the  gentle  hand  of 
his  pretty  niece.  As  for  Beaufort,  he  bored  the  sufferer; 
and  when  that  gentleman,  on  his  arrival,  shutting  out 
his  wife  and  daughter,  whispered  to  Lilburne,  "  Any 
more  news  of  that  impostor  1  "  Lilburne  answered 
peevishly,  "  I  never  talk  about  business  when  I  have 
the  gout!  I  have  set  Sharp  to  keep  a  look-out  for  him, 
but  he  has  learned  nothing  as  yet.  And  now  go  to 
your  club.  You  are  a  worthy  creature,  but  too  solemn 
for  my  spirits  just  at  this  moment.  I  have  a  few  people 
coming  to  dine  with  me,  your  wife  will  do  the  honors, 
and  —  7/oti  can  come  in  the  evening." 

Though  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort's  sense  of  importance 
swelled  and  chafed  at  this  very  unceremonious  co7i(je, 
he  forced  a  smile,  and  said, — 

"  Well,  it  is  no  wonder  you  are  a  little  fretful  with 
the  gout.  I  have  plenty  to  do  in  town,  and  Mrs.  Beau- 
fort and  Camilla  can  come  back  without  waiting  for 
me." 

"  Why,  as  your  cook  is  ill,  and  they  can't  dine  at  a 
club,  you  may  as  well  leave  them  here  till  I  am  a  little 
better;  not  that  I  care,  for  I  can  hire  a  better  nurse  tliau 
either  of  them." 

"  My  dear  Lilburne,  don't  talk  of  hiring  nurses:  cer- 
tainly, I  am  too  happy  if  they  can  be  of  comfort  to  you." 

"No!  on  second  thoughts,  you  may  take  back  your 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  201 

wife,  she  's  always  talking  of  her  OAvn  complaints,  and 
leave  me  Camilla;  you  can't  want  hnv  for  a  few  days." 

"Just  as  you  like.  And  you  really  think  I  have 
managed  as  well  as  I  could  about  this  young  man, 
—  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes!  And  so  you  go  to  Beaufort  Court  in  a  few 
days  1  " 

"  I  propose  doing  so.  I  wish  you  were  well  enough 
to  come." 

"  Um !  Chambers  says  that  it  would  be  a  very  good 
air  for  me,  —  better  than  Ternside ;  and  as  to  my  castle 
in  the  north,  I  would  as  soon  go  to  Siberia.  Well,  if 
I  get  better,  I  will  pay  you  a  visit,  only  you  always 
have  such  a  stupid  set  of  respectable  people  about  you. 
I  shock  them,  and  they  oppress  me." 

"  Why,  as  I  hope  soon  to  see  Arthur,  T  shall  make  it 
as  agreeable  to  him  as  I  can,  and  I  shall  be  very  much 
obliged  to  you  if  you  would  invite  a  few  of  your  own 
friends. " 

"  Well,  you  are  a  good  fellow,  Beaufort,  and  I  will 
take  you  at  your  word;  and,  since  one  good  turn 
deserves  another,  I  have  now  no  scruple  in  telling  you 
that  I  feel  quite  sure  that  you  will  have  no  further 
annoyance  from  this  troublesome  witness-monger. " 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Beaufort,  "  I  may  pick  up  a  better 
match  for  Camilla!     Good-by,  ray  dear  Lilburne." 

"  Form  and  ceremony  of  the  world!  "  snarled  the  peer, 
as  the  door  closed  on  his  brother-in-law,  "  ye  make  little 
men  very  moral,  and  not  a  bit  the  better  for  being  so!  " 

It  so  happened  that  Vaudemont  arrived  before  any  of 
the  other  guests  that  day,  and  during  the  half-hour 
which  Dr.  Chambers  assigned  to  his  illustrious  patient, 
so  that,  when  he  entered,  there  were  only  Mrs.  Beaufort 
and  Camilla  in  the  drawing-room. 


202  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

Vaudemont  drew  back  involuntarily,  as  he  recognized 
in    the    faded    countenance    of    the    elder    lady  features 
associated  with  one  of  the  dark  passages  in  his  earlier 
life;   but   Mrs.    Beaufort's   gracious    smile,  and   urbane 
though  languid  welcome,  sufficed  to  assure  him  that  the 
recotinition  was  not  mutual.      He  advanced,  and  again 
stopped  short,  as   his   eye  fell  upon  that  fair  and  still 
childlike  form,  which  had   once  knelt  by  his  side  and 
pleaded,  with  the  orphan,  for   his   brother.      While  he 
spoke  to  her,  many  recollections,  some  dark  and  stern, 
—  but  those,  at  least,  connected  with  Camilla,  soft  and 
gentle,  —  thrilled  through  his  heart.      Occupied  as  her 
own  thoughts  and  feelings  necessarily  were  with  Sidney, 
there  Avas    something    in   Vaudemont's    appearance,   his 
manner,  his  voice,  which  forced  upon  Camilla  a  strange 
and  undefined    interest;    and  even    Mrs.    Beaufort    was 
roused  from  her  customary  apathy,  as  she  glanced  to  that 
dark    and    commanding    face    with    something    between 
admiration   and   fear.      Vaudemont  had   scarcely,   how- 
ever, spoken  ten  words,  when  some  other  guests  were 
announced,  and  Lord  Lilburne  was  wheeled  in  upon  his 
sofa   shortly    afterwards.      Vaudemont    continued,   how- 
ever, seated  next  to  Camilla,  and  the  embarrassment  he 
had  at  first  felt  disappeared.      He    possessed,  when  he 
pleased  it,  that  kind  of  eloquence  which  belongs  to  men 
who  have  seen  much  and  felt  deeply,  and  whose  talk  has 
not  been  frittered  down  to  the  commonplace  jargon  of 
the    world.       His    very    phraseology    was    distinct   and 
peculiar,  and  he  had  that  rarest  of  all  charms  in  polished 
life,  originality  both  of  thought  and  of  manner.     Camilla 
blushed  when   she  found  at  dinner  that  he  placed  him- 
self by  her  side.     That  evening  De  Vaudemont  excused 
himself   from  playing,  but    the    table  was  easily   made 
without  him,  and  still  he  continued  to   converse  with 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  203 

the  daugliter  of  tlie  man  wliom  he  hehl  as  his  worst  foe. 
])y  degrees,  he  turned  the  conversation  into  a  channel 
that  might  lead  him  to  the  knowledge  he  sought. 

"  It  was  my  fate,"  said  he,  "  once  to  become  acquainted 
with  an  intimate  friend  of  the  late  Mr.  Beaufort.  Will 
you  pardon  me  if  I  venture  to  fulfil  a  promise  I  made  to 
him,  and  ask  you  to  inform  me  what  has  become  of  a  — 
a  —  that  is,  of  Sidney  Morton  ?  " 

"  Sidney  Morton!  I  don't  even  remember  the  name. 
Oh,  yes!  I  have  heard  it,"  added  Camilla,  innocently, 
and  with  a  candor  that  showed  how  little  she  knew  of 
the  secrets  of  the  family;  "  he  was  one  of  two  poor  boys 
in  whom  my  brother  felt  a  deep  interest,  —  some  rela- 
tions to  my  uncle.  Yes,  yes!  I  remember  now.  I 
never  knew  Sidney ,  but  T  once  did  see  his  brother. " 

"  Indeed !  and  you  remember  —  " 

"  Yes!  I  was  very  young  then.  I  scarcely  recollect 
what  passed ,  it  was  all  so  confused  and  strange ;  but  I 
know  that  I  made  papa  very  angry,  and  I  was  told 
never  to  mention  the  name  of  Morton  again.  I  believe 
they  behaved  very  ill  to  papa." 

"  And  you  never  learned  —  never !  —  the  fate  of  either, 
—  of  Sidney  ?  " 

"Xever!" 

"  But  your  father  must  know  1  " 

"  I  think  not;  but  tell  me,"  said  Camilla,  with  girlish 
and  unaffected  innocence,  "  I  have  always  felt  anxious  to 
know,  —  what  and  who  were  those  poor  boys?  " 

What  and  who  were  they?  So  deep,  then,  was  the 
stain  upon  their  name,  that  the  modest  mother  and  the 
decorous  father  had  never  even  said  to  that  young  girl, 
"  They  are  your  cousins,  —  the  children  of  the  man  in 
whose  gold  we  revel !  " 

Philip  bit  his  lip,  and  the  spell  of  Camilla's  presence 


204  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

seemed  vanished.  He  muttered  some  inaudible  answer, 
turned  away  to  the  card-table,  and  Liancourt  took  the 
chair  he  had  left  vacant. 

"  And  how  does  INIiss  Beaufort  like  my  friend  Vaude- 
mont?  I  assure  you  that  I  have  seldom  seen  him  so 
alive  to  tlie  fascination  of  female  beauty !  " 

"Oh!"  said  Camilla,  with  her  silver  laugh,  "your 
nation  spoils  us  for  our  own  countrymen.  You  forget 
how  little  we  are  accustomed  to  flattery." 

"  Flattery !  what  truth  could  flatter  on  the  lips  of  an 
exile?  But  you  don't  answer  my  question, — what 
think  you  of  Vaudemont?  Few  are  more  admired. 
He  is  handsome !  " 

"  Is  he  ?  "  said  Camilla,  and  she  glanced  at  Vaudemont, 
as  he  stood  at  a  little  distance,  thoughtful  and  abstracted. 
Every  girl  forms  to  herself  some  untold  dream  of  that 
which  she  considers  fairest.  And  Vaudemont  had  not 
the  delicate  and  faultless  beauty  of  Sidney.  There  was 
nothing  that  corresponded  to  her  ideal  in  his  marked 
features  and  lordly  shape  I  But  she  owned,  reluctantly, 
to  herself,  that  she  had  seldom  seen,  among  the  trim 
gallants  of  everyday  life,  a  form  so  striking  and  impres- 
sive. The  air,  indeed,  was  professional,  —  the  most 
careless  glance  could  detect  the  soldier.  But  it  seemed 
the  soldier  of  an  elder  age  or  a  wilder  clime.  He  recalled 
to  her  those  heads  which  she  had  seen  in  the  Beaufort 
Gallery  and  other  collections  yet  more  celebrated,  — 
portraits  by  Titian  of  those  warrior  statesmen  who  lived 
in  the  old  republics  of  Italy  in  a  perpetual  struggle 
with  their  kind:  images  of  dark,  resolute,  earnest  men. 
Even  whatever  was  intellectual  in  his  countenance 
spoke,  as  in  those  portraits,  of  a  mind  sharpened  rather 
in  active  than  in  studious  life,  —  intellectual,  not  from 
the   pale  hues,  the  worn  exhaustion,   and    the   sunken 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  205 

cheek  of  the  bookman  and  dreamer,  but  from  its  collected 
and  stern  repose,  the  calm  depth  that  lay  beneath  the 
fire  of  the  eyes,  and  the  strong  will  that  spoke  in  the 
close  full  lips,  and  the  high  but  not  cloudless  forehead. 

And,  as  she  gazed,  Vaudemont  turned  round,  —  her 
eyes  fell  beneath  his,  and  she  felt  angry  with  herself 
that  she  blushed.  Vaudemont  saw  the  downcast  eye, 
he  saw  the  Ijlush,  and  the  attraction  of  Camilla's  pres- 
ence was  restored.  He  would  have  approached  her; 
but  at  that  moment  Mr.  Beaufort  himself  entered,  and 
his  thoughts  went  again  into  a  darker  channel. 

"  Yes,"  said  Liancourt,  "  you  must  allow  Vaudemont 
looks  what  he  is,  — a  noble  fellow  and  a  gallant  soldier. 
Did  you  never  hear  of  his  battle  with  the  tigress?  It 
made  a  noise  in  India.  I  must  tell  it  you  as  I  have 
heard  it." 

And  while  Liancourt  was  narrating  the  adventure, 
whatever  it  was,  to  which  he  referred,  the  card-table 
was  broken  up,  and  Lord  Lilburne,  still  reclining  on 
his  sofa,  lazily  introduced  his  brother-in-law  to  such 
of  the  guests  as  were  strangers  to  him,  —  Vaudemont 
among  the  rest.  Mr.  Beaufort  had  never  seen  Philip 
Morton  more  than  three  times;  once  at  Fernside,  and 
the  other  times  by  an  imperfect  light,  and  when  his 
features  were  convulsed  by  passion,  and  his  form  dis- 
figured by  his  dress.  Certainly,  therefore,  had  Robert 
Beaufort  even  possessed  that  faculty  of  memory  which 
is  supposed  to  belong  peculiarly  to  kings  and  princes,  and 
which  recalls  every  face  once  seen,  it  might  have  tasked 
the  gift  to  the  utmost  to  have  detected,  in  the  bronzed 
and  decorated  foreigner  to  whom  he  was  now  presented, 
the  features  of  the  wild  and  long-lost  boy.  But  still 
some  dim  and  uneasy  presentiment,  or  some  struggling 
and  painful  effort  of  recollection,  was  in  his  mind,  as  he 


206  NIGHT    AND    MOP.NIXG. 

spoke  to  Yaudeinont,  and  listened  to  the  cold,  calm  tone 
of  his  reply. 

"  Who  do  you  say  that  Frenchman  is  1  "  he  whispered 
to  his  brother-in-law,  as  Yaudemont  turned  away. 

"  Oh !  a  cleverish  sort  of  adventurer,  —  a  gentleman : 
he  plays.  He  has  seen  a  good  deal  of  the  world;  he 
rather  amuses  me, —  different  from  other  people.  I  think 
of  asking  him  to  join  our  circle  at  Beaufort  Court." 

Mr.  Beaufort  coughed  huskily,  but  not  seeing  any 
reasonable  objection  to  the  proposal,  and  afraid  of 
rousing  the  sleeping  hyena  of  Lord  Lilburne's  sarcasm, 
he  merely  said,  — 

"  Any  one  you  like  to  invite :  "  and  looking  round  for 
some  one  on  whom  to  vent  his  displeasure,  perceived 
Camilla  still  listening  to  Liancourt.  He  stalked  up  to 
her,  and,  as  Liancourt,  seeing  her  rise,  rose  also  and 
moved  away,  he  said  peevishly,  "  You  will  never  learn 
to  conduct  yourself  properly ;  you  are  to  he  left  here 
to  nurse  and  comfort  your  uncle,  and  not  to  listen  to  the 
gibberish  of  every  French  adventurer.  Well,  Heaven 
be  praised,  I  have  a  son!  —  girls  are  a  great  plague!  " 

"  So  they  are,  Mr.  Beaufort,"  sighed  his  wife,  who 
had  just  joined  him,  and  who  was  jealous  of  the  prefer- 
ence Lilburne  had  given  to  her  daughter. 

"And  so  selfish,"  added  Mrs.  Beaufort;  "they  only 
care  for  their  own  amusements,  and  never  mind  how 
uncomfortable  their  parents  are  for  want  of  them." 

"Oh!  dear  mamma,  don't  say  so:  let  me  go  home 
with  you,  —  I  '11  speak  to  my  uncle !  " 

"  Nonsense,  child!  Come  along,  Mr.  Beaufort;"  and 
the  affectionate  parents  went  out  arm  in  arm.  They 
did  not  perceive  that  Yaudemont  had  been  standing  close 
behind  them;  but  Camilla,  now  looking  up  with  tears 
in  her  eyes,  again  caught  his  gaze :  he  had  heard  all. 


KIGHT   AND   MOltNING.  207 

"  And  they  ill-treat  her,"  he  muttered:  "  that  divides 
her  from  them!  —  she  will  be  left  here;  I  shall  see  her 
again. " 

As  he  turned  to  depart,  Lilburne  beckoned  to  him. 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  desert  our  table  1  " 

"  iSTo;  but  I  am  not  very  well  to-night,  —  to-morrow, 
if  you  will  allow  me." 

"  Ay,  to-morrow;  and  if  you  can  spare  an  hour  in  the 
morning  it  will  be  a  charity.  You  see,"  he  added  in  a 
whisper,  "  I  have  a  nurse,  though  I  have  no  children. 
D'  ye  think  that 's  love  1  Bah !  sir,  —  a  legacy !  Good- 
night." 

"iS'o,  no,  no!"  said  Vaudemont  to  himself,  as  ho 
walked  through  the  moonlight  streets.  "  No!  though 
my  heart  burns,  —  poor  murdered  felon !  —  to  avenge  thy 
wrongs  and  thy  crimes,  revenge  cannot  come  from  me: 
he  is  Fanny's  grandfather,  and —  Camilla's  uncle!  " 

And  Camilla,  when  that  uncle  had  dismissed  her  for 
the  night,  sat  down  thoughtfully  in  her  own  room. 
The  dark  eyes  of  Vaudemont  seemed  still  to  shine  on 
her;  his  voice  yet  rung  in  her  ear;  the  wild  tales  of 
daring  and  danger  with  which  Liancourt  had  associated 
his  name,  yet  haunted  her  bewildered  fancy,  —  she 
started,  frightened  at  her  own  thoughts.  She  took  from 
her  bosom  some  lines  that  Sidney  had  addressed  to  her, 
and  as  she  read  and  re-read,  her  spirit  became  calmed 
to  its  wonted  and  faithful  melancholy.  Vaudemont 
was  forgotten,  and  the  name  of  Sidney  yet  murmured 
on  her  lips,  when  sleep  came  to  renew  the  image  of  the 
absent  one,  and  paint  iu  dreams  the  fairy-land  of  a  happy 
future ! 


208  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

Ring  on,  ye  bells,  —  most  pleasant  is  your  chime ! 

Wilson:  Isle  of  Palms. 

0  fairy  child  !     What  can  I  wish  for  thee  '  —  Ibid. 

Vaudemont    remained   six    days   in   London   witliout 

going  to  H ,  and  each  of  those  days  he  paid  a  visit 

to  Lord  Lilburne.  On  the  seventh  day,  the  invalid 
being  much  better,  though  still  unable  to  leave  his 
room,  Camilla  returned  to  Berkeley  Square.  On  the 
same  day  Vaudemont  went  once  more  to  see  Simon  and 
poor  Fanny. 

As  he  approached  the  door,  he  heard  from  the  window, 
partially  opened,  for  the  day  was  clear  and  fine,  Fanny's 
sweet  voice.  She  was  chanting  one  of  the  simple  songs  she 
had  promised  to  learn  by  heart;  and  Vaudemont,  though 
but  a  poor  judge  of  the  art,  was  struck  and  affected  by 
the  music  of  the  voice  and  the  earnest  depth  of  the 
feeling.  He  paused  opposite  the  window  and  called 
her  by  her  name.  Fanny  looked  forth  joyously,  and 
ran,  as  usual,  to  open  the  door  to  him. 

"  Oh !  you  have  been  so  long  away ;  but  I  already 
know  many  of  the  songs:  they  say  so  much  that  I  always 
wanted  to  say!  " 

Vaudemont  smiled,  but  languidly. 

"How  strange  it  is,"  said  Fanny,  musingly,  "that 
there  should  be  so  much  in  a  piece  of  paper!  for,  after 
all,"  pointing  to  the  open  page  of  her  book,  "  this  is  but 
a  piece  of  paper,  — only  there  is  life  in  it!  " 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  209 

"  Ay,"  said  Vaudeinont,  gloomily,  and  far  from 
seizing  the  subtle  delicacy  of  Fanny's  thought,  —  her 
mind  dwelling  upon  poetry  and  his  upon  law,  —  "  ay,  and 
do  you  know  that  upon  a  mere  scrap  of  paper,  if  I  could 
but  find  it,  may  depend  my  whole  fortune,  my  whole 
happiness,  all  tliat  I  care  for  in  life?  " 

"  Upon  a  scrap  of  paper?  Oh!  how  I  wish  I  could 
find  it !  Ah !  you  look  as  if  you  thought  I  should  never 
be  wise  enough  for  that!  " 

Vaudemont,  not  listening  to  her,  uttered  a  deep  sigh. 
Fanny  approached  him  timidly. 

"  Do  not  sigh,  brother,  —  I  can't  bear  to  hear  you 
sigh.  You  are  changed.  Have  you,  too,  not  been 
happy?" 

"Happy,  Fanny!  yes,  lately  very  happy,  —  too 
happy !  " 

"  Happy,  have  you?  and  / —  "  the  girl  stopped  short; 
her  tone  had  been  that  of  sadness  and  reproach,  and  she 
stopped,  —  why  she  knew  not,  but  she  felt  her  heart  sink 
within  her.  Fanny  suffered  him  to  pass  her,  and  he 
went  straight  to  his  own  room.  Her  eyes  followed  him 
wistfully  ;  it  was  not  his  habit  to  leave  her  thus  abruptly. 
The  family  meal  of  the  day  was  over;  and  it  was  an 
hour  before  Vaudemont  descended  to  the  parlor.  Fanny 
had  put  aside  the  songs;  she  had  no  heart  to  recommence 
those  gentle  studies  that  had  been  so  sweet,  —  thej^  had 
drawn  no  pleasure,  no  praise  from  him.  She  was  seated 
idly  and  listlessly  beside  the  silent  old  man,  who  every 
day  grew  more  and  more  silent  still.  She  turned  her 
head  as  Vaudemont  entered,  and  her  pretty  lip  pouted  as 
that  of  a  neglected  child.  But  he  did  not  heed  it,  and 
the  pout  vanished,  and  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes. 

Vaudemont  was  changed.  His  countenance  was 
thoughtful    and    overcast,    his  manner   abstracted.     He 

VOL.  II.  — 14 


210  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

a.Mrossod  a  few  words  to  Simon,  and  then,  seating 
himself  by  the  window,  leaned  his  cheek  on  his  hand, 
and  was  soon  lost  in  reverie.  Fanny,  finding  that  he 
(lid  not  speak,  and,  after  stealing  many  a  long  and  earnest 
glance  at  his  motionless  attitude  and  gloomy  brow,  rose 
gently,  and  gliding  to  him  with  her  light  step,  said  in 
a  trembling  voice, — 

"  Are  you  in  pain,  brother?  " 
"No,  pretty  one!  " 

"Then  why  won't  you  speak  to  Fanny?  Will  you 
not  walk  with  her?  Perhaps  my  grandfather  will  come 
too." 

"Not  this  evening.  I  shall  go  out;  but  it  will  be 
alone." 

"  Where  ?  Has  not  Fanny  been  good  ?  I  have  not  been 
out  since  you  left  us.  And  the  grave, — brother!  I 
sent  Sarah  with  the  flowers,  but  —  " 

Vaudemont  rose  abruptly.  The  mention  of  the  grave 
brought  back  his  thoughts  from  the  dreaming  channel 
into  which  they  had  flowed.  Fanny,  whose  very  child- 
ishness had  once  so  soothed  him,  now  disturbed;  he  felt 
the  want  of  that  complete  solitude  Avhich  makes  the 
atmosphere  of  growing  passion;  he  muttered  some 
scarcely  audible  excuse,  and  quitted  the  house.  Fanny 
saw  him  no  more  that  evening.  He  did  not  return  till 
midnight.  But  Fanny  did  not  sleep  till  she  heard  his 
step  on  the  stairs,  and  his  chamber-door  close;  and  when 
she  did  sleep,  her  dreams  were  disturbed  and  painful. 
The  next  morning,  Avhen  they  met  at  breakfast  (for 
Vaudemont  did  not  return  to  London),  her  eyes  were 
red  and  heavy,  and  her  cheek  pale.  And,  still  buried  in 
meditation,  Vaudemont's  eye,  usually  so  kind  and 
watchful,  did  not  detect  those  signs  of  a  grief  that  Fanny 
could  not  have  explained.     After  breakfast,  however,  he 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  211 

asked  her  to  walk  out;  and  her  face  brightened  as  she 
hastened  to  put  on  her  bonnet,  and  take  her  little  basket, 
full  of  fresh  flowers  which  she  had  already  sent  Sarah 
forth  to  purcliase. 

"Fanny,"  said  Vaudemont,  as  leaving  the  house,  he 
saw  the  basket  on  her  arm,  "  to-day  you  may  place  some 
of  those  flowers  on  another  tombstone !  Poor  child,  what 
natural  goodness  there  is  in  that  heart!  —  what  pity 
that  —  " 

He  paused.      Fanny  looked  delightedly  in  his  face. 

"  You  were  praising  me,  — you  !  And  what  is  a  pity, 
brother?" 

While  she  spoke,  the  sound  of  the  joy -bells  was  heard 
near  at  hand. 

"Hark!"  said  Vaudemont,  forgetting  her  question, 
and  almost  gayly, — "hark!  —  I  accept  the  omen.  It 
is  a  marriage  peal !  " 

He  quickened  his  steps,  and  they  reached  the 
churchyard. 

There  was  a  crowd  already  assembled,  and  Vaudemont 
and  Fanny  paused,  and,  leaning  over  the  little  gate, 
looked  on. 

"  Why  are  these  peo^jle  here,  and  why  does  the  bell 
ring  so  merrily  ?  " 

"  There  is  to  be  a  wedding,  Fanny." 

"  I  have  heard  of  a  wedding  very  often,"  said  Fanny, 
with  a  pretty  look  of  puzzlement  and  doubt,  "  but  I 
don't  know  exactly  what  it  means.  Will  you  tell  me? 
—  and  the  bells  too  ?  " 

"Yes,  Fanny,  those  bells  toll  but  three  times  for 
man!  The  first  time,  when  he  comes  into  the  world; 
the  last  time,  when  he  leaves  it;  the  time  between, 
when  he  takes  to  his  side  a  partner  in  all  the  sorrows, 
in  all  the  joys  that  yet  remain  to  him;  and  who,  even 


212  IS'IGHT   AND    MQIIXING. 

when  the  last  bell  announces  his  death  to  this  earth,  may 
yet,  forever  and  ever,  be  his  partner  in  that  world  to 
come:  that  Heaven,  where  they  who  are  as  innocent  as 
you,  Fanny,  may  hope  to  live  and  to  love  each  other  in 
a  land  in  which  there  are  no  graves !  " 

"  And  this  bell  ?  " 

"Tolls  for  that  partnership,  —  for  the  Avedding!  " 

"  T  think  I  understand  you :  and  they  Avho  are  to  be 
wed  are  happy  1  " 

"  Happy,  Fanny,  if  they  love,  and  their  love  continue. 
Oh!  conceive  the  happiness  to  know  some  one  person 
dearer  to  you  than  your  own  self,  —  some  one  breast  into 
which  you  can  pour  every  thought,  every  grief,  every 
joy!  One  person,  who,  if  all  the  rest  of  the  world  were 
to  calumniate  or  forsake  you,  would  never  wrong  you  by 
a  harsh  thought  or  an  unjust  word;  who  would  cling  to 
you  the  closer  in  sickness,  in  poverty,  in  care;  who 
would  sacrifice  all  things  to  you,  and  for  whom  you 
would  sacrifice  all;  from  whom,  except  by  death,  night 
or  day,  you  may  be  never  divided;  whose  smile  is  ever 
at  your  hearth;  who  has  no  tears  while  you  are  well  and 
happy,  and  your  love  the  same.  Fanny,  such  is  marriage, 
if  they  who  marry  have  hearts  and  souls  to  feel  that 
there  is  no  bond  on  earth  so  tender  and  so  sublime. 
There  is  an  opposite  picture:  I  will  not  draw  that! 
And  as  it  is,  Fanny,  you  cannot  understand  me!  " 

He  turned  away,  and  Fanny's  tears  were  falling  like 
rain  upon  the  grass  below:  he  did  not  see  them!  He 
entered  the  churchyard,  for  tlie  bell  now  ceased;  the 
ceremony  was  to  begin.  He  followed  tlie  bridal  party 
into  the  church,  and  Fanny,  lowering  her  veil,  crept 
after  him,  aw^ed  and  trembling. 

They  stood,  unobserved,  at  a  little  distance,  and  heard 
the  service. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  213 

The  betrothed  were  of  the  middle  class  of  life,  young, 
both  ceniely ;  and  their  behavior  was  such  as  suited  the 
reverence  and  sanctity  of  the  rite.  Vaudemont  stood, 
looking  on  intently,  with  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast. 
Fanny  leaned  behind  him,  and  apart  from  all,  against 
one  of  the  pews.  And  still  in  her  hand,  while  the 
priest  was  solemnizing  marriage,  she  held  the  flowers 
intended  for  the  grave.  Even  to  that  Morning  — 
hushed,  calm,  earnest,  with  her  mysterious  and  un- 
conjectured  heart  —  her  shape  brought  a  thought  of 
Night! 

When  the  ceremony  was  over;  when  the  bride  fell  on 
her  mother's  breast,  and  wept;  and  then,  when  turning 
thence  her  eyes  met  the  bridegroom's  and  the  tears  were 
all  smiled  away ;  when  in  that  one  rapid  interchange  of 
looks  spoke  all  that  holy  love  can  speak  to  love,  and 
with  timid  frankness  she  placed  her  hand  in  his  to 
whom  she  had  just  vowed  her  life,  —  a  tlirill  went 
through  the  hearts  of  those  present.  Vaudemont  sighed 
heavily.  He  heard  his  sigh  echoed,  but  by  one  that  had 
in  its  sound  no  breath  of  pain ;  he  turned ;  Fanny  had 
raised  her  veil;  her  eyes  met  his,  moistened,  but 
bright,  soft,  and  her  cheeks  were  rosy -red.  Vaudemont 
recoiled  before  that  gaze,  and  turned  from  the  church. 
The  persons  interested  retired  to  the  vestry  to  sign 
their  names  in  the  registry;  the  crowd  dispersed, 
and  Vaudemont  and  Fanny  stood  alone  in  the  burial- 
ground. 

"Look,  Fanny,"  said  the  former,  pointing  to  a  tomb 
that  stood  far  from  his  mother's  (for  those  ashes  were 
too  hallowed  for  such  a  neighborhood),  —  "  look  yonder; 
it  is  a  new  tomb,  Fanny,  let  us  approach  it.  Can  you 
read  what  is  there  inscribed  1  " 

The  inscription  was  simply  this :  — 


21-i  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

To  W—  G— . 

MAN   SEES   THE    DEED,  — 

GOD     THE     CIRCUMSTANCE. 

JUDGE   NOT,   THAT   YE   BE   NOT   JUDGED. 

"  Fanny,  this  tomb  fulfils  your  pious  wish:  it  is  to  the 
memory  of  him  whom  you  called  your  father.  Whatever 
was  his  life  here,  — whatever  sentence  it  hath  received, 
Heaven,  at  least,  Avill  not  condemn  your  piety,  if  you 
honor  one  who  was  good  to  you,  and  place  flowers, 
however  idle,  even  over  that  grave." 

"  It  is  his,  —  my  father's  —  and  you  have  thought  of 
this  for  me!  "  said  Fanny,  taking  his  hand,  and  sobbing. 
"  And  I  have  been  thinking  that  you  were  not  so  kind 
to  me  as  you  were!  " 

"  Have  I  not  been  so  kind  to  you ?  —  nay,  forgive  me, 
I  am  not  happy. " 

"  Not  1  —  you  said  yesterday  you  had  been  too  happy. " 

"  To  remember  happiness  is  not  to  be  happy,  Fanny." 

"That's  true,  and  —  " 

Fanny  stopped;  and,  as  she  bent  over  the  tomb 
musing,  Vaudemont  —  willing  to  leave  her  undisturbed, 
and  feeling  bitterly  how  little  his  conscience  could 
vindicate,  though  it  miglit  find  palliation  for  the  dark 
man  who  slept  not  there  —  retired  a  few  paces. 

At  this  time  the  new-married  pair,  with  their  wit- 
nesses, the  clergyman,  etc.,  came  from  the  vestry  and 
cros.sed  the  path.  Fanny,  as  she  turned  from  the  tomb, 
saw  them,  and  stood  still,  looking  earnestly  at  the  bride. 

"  What  a  lovely  face !  "  said  the  mother.  "  Is  it  —  yes 
it  is  —  the  poor  idiot  girl." 

"Ah!"  said  the  bridegroom,  tenderly,  "and  she, 
Mary,  beautiful  as  she  is,  she  can  never  make  another  as 
happy  as  you  have  made  me. " 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  21 


K 


VauJemont  heard,  and  his  heart  felt  sad.  "  Poor 
Fanny!  And  yet,  hut  for  that  alfliction,  /  might  have 
loved  her,  ere  I  met  the  fatal  face  of  the  daughter  of  my 
foe!"  And  with  a  deep  compassion,  an  inexpressible 
and  holy  fondness,  he  moved  to   Fanny. 

"  Gome,  my  child;  now  let  us  go  home." 

"  Stay,"  said  Fanny,  —  "  you  forget. "  And  she  went 
to  strew  the  flowers  still  left  over  Catherine's  grave. 

"  Will  my  mother,"  thought  Vaudemont,  "  forgive  me, 
if  1  have  other  thoughts  than  hate  and  vengeance  for 
that  house  which  builds  its  greatness  over  her  slandered 
name  1 "  He  groaned :  and  that  grave  had  lost  its 
melancholy  charm. 


216  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Of  all  men,  I  say, 

That  dare,  for  't  is  a  desperate  adventure, 
Wear  ou  their  free  necks  tlie  yoke  of  women, 
Give  me  a  soldier. 

Knight  of  Malta, 
So  lightly  doth  this  little  boat 
Upon  the  scane-touched  billows  float ; 
So  careless  dotli  she  seem  to  be, 
Thus  left  by  herself  on  the  homeless  sea, 
To  lie  there  with  her  cheerful  sail, 
Till  Heaven  shall  send  some  gracious  gale. 

Wilson  :  Isle  of  Palms. 

Vaudemont  returned  that  evening  to  London,  and 
found  at  his  lodgings  a  note  from  Lord  Lilburne,  stating 
that  as  his  gout  was  now  somewhat  mitigated,  his 
physician  had  recommended  him  to  try  change  of  air; 
that  Beaufort  Court  was  in  one  of  the  western  counties, 
in  a  genial  climate;  that  he  was  therefore  going  thither 
the  next  day  for  a  short  time ;  that  he  had  asked  some  of 
]\Ionsieur  de  Vaudemont's  countrymen,  and  a  few  other 
friends,  to  enliven  the  circle  of  a  dull  country-house; 
that  ^Ir.  and  Mrs.  Beaufort  would  be  delighted  to  see 
Monsieur  de  Vaudemont  also,  — and  that  his  compliance 
with  their  invitation  would  be  a  charity  to  Monsieur  de 
Vaudemont's  faitliful  and  obliged  Lilburne. 

The  first  sensation  of  Vaudemont  on  reading  this 
effusion  was  delight.  "  I  shall  see  her,"  he  cried,  "  I 
shall  be  under  the  same  roof  !  "  But  the  glow  faded  at 
once  from  his  cheek  The  roof  !  what  roof  !  Be  the 
guest  where  he  held  himself  the  lord !  —  be  the  guest  of 


! 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  217 

Robert  Beaufort!  Was  that  all?  T^iil  lie  not  meditate 
the  deadliest  war  which  civilized  life  admits  of,  —  the 
fV'ir  of  Laiv  :  war  for  name,  property,  that  very  hearth, 
with  all  its  household  goils,  against  this  man, — could 
he  receive  his  hospitality  1  "  And  what  then  ? "  he 
exclaimed,  as  he  paced  to  and  fro  the  room,  — "  because 
her  father  wronged  me,  and  because  I  would  claim  mine 
own,  must  I  therefore  exclude  from  my  thoughts,  from 
my  sight,  an  image  so  fair  and  gentle,  — the  one  who 
knelt  by  my  side,  an  infant,  to  that  hard  man?  Is  hate 
so  noble  a  passion  that  it  is  not  to  admit  one  glimpse  of 
love?  Love!  what  word  is  that?  Let  me  beware  in 
time!"  He  paused  in  fierce  self-contest,  and,  throwing 
open  the  window,  gasped  for  air.  The  street  in  which  he 
lodged  Avas  situated  in  the  neighborhood  of  St.  James's; 
and,  at  that  very  moment,  as  if  to  defeat  all  opposition, 
and  to  close  the  struggle,  Mrs.  Beaufort's  barouche  drove 
by,  Camilla  at  her  side.  Mrs.  Beaufort,  glancing  up, 
languidly  bowed;  and  Camilla  herself  perceived  him, 
and  he  saw  her  change  color  as  she  inclined  her  head. 
He  gazed  after  them  almost  breathless  till  the  carriage 
disappeared ;  and  then,  reclosing  the  window,  he  sat 
down  to  collect  his  thoughts,  and  again  to  reason  with 
himself.  But  still,  as  he  reasoned,  he  saw  ever  before 
him  that  blush  and  that  smile.  At  last  he  sprang  up, 
and  a  noble  and  bright  expression  elevated  the  character 
of  his  face:  "Yes,  if  I  enter  that  house,  if  I  eat  that 
man's  bread  and  drink  of  his  cup,  I  must  forego,  not 
justice,  — not  what  is  due  to  my  mother's  name,  —  but 
Avhatever  belongs  to  hate  and  vengeance.  \i  I  enter 
that  house,  and  if  Brovidence  permit  me  the  means 
whereby  to  regain  my  rights,  why,  she  —  the  innocent 
one  —  she  may  be  the  means  of  saving  her  father  from 
ruin,  and  stand  like  an  angel  by  that  boundary  where 


218  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

justice  runs  into  revenge!  Besides,  is  it  not  my  duty 
to  discover  Sidney?  Here  is  the  only  clew  I  shall 
obtain."  AVith  these  thoughts,  he  hesitated  no  more, — 
he  decided:  he  would  not  reject  this  hospitality,  since 
it  might  be  in  his  power  to  pay  it  back  ten  thousand-fold. 
"  And  who  knows,"  he  murmured  again,  "  if  Heaven,  in 
throwing  this  sweet  being  in  my  Avay,  might  not  have 
designed  to  subdue  and  chasten  in  inc  the  angry  passions 
I  have  so  long  fed  on  1  I  have  seen  her,  —  can  I  now 
hate  her  father  ?  " 

He  sent  off  his  note  accepting  the  invitation.  When 
he  bad  done  so,  was  be  satisfied?  He  had  taken  as  noT)le 
and  as  large  a  view  of  the  diities  thereby  imposed  on  liiiu 
as  he  well  could  take ;  but  something  whispered  at  his 
heart,  "There  is  weakness  in  thy  generosity,  —  darest 
thou  love  the  daughter  of  Robert  Beaufort?  "  And  his 
heart  had  no  answer  to  this  voice. 

The  rapidity  with  which  love  is  ripened  depends  less 
upon  the  actvial  number  of  years  that  liave  passed  over 
the  soil  in  which  the  seed  is  cast,  than  upon  the  freshness 
of  the  soil  itself.  A  young  man  who  lives  the  ordinary 
life  of  the  world,  and  wlio  fritters  away  rather  than 
exhausts  his  feelings  upon  a  variety  of  quick  succeeding 
subjects,  — the  Cynthias  of  the  minute,  —  is  not  apt  to 
form  a  real  passion  at  the  first  sight.  Youth  is  infiam- 
malile  only  when  the  heart  is  young. 

There  are  certain  times  of  life  when,  in  either  sex, 
the  affections  are  prepared,  as  it  were,  to  be  impress(id 
with  the  first  fair  face  tliat  attracts  the  fancy  and 
delights  the  eye.  Such  times  are  when  the  heart  has 
been  long  solitary,  and  when  some  interval  of  idleness 
and  rest  succeeds  to  periods  of  harsher  and  more  turbulent 
excitement.  It  was  precisely  such  a  period  in  the  life 
of  Vaudemont.      Although    his    ambition    had  been  for 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  219 

many  years  his  dream,  and  his  sword  liis  mistress,  yet, 
naturally  affectionate,  and  susceptihle  of  strong  emotion, 
he  had  often  repined  at  his  lonely  lot.  By  degrees,  the 
hoy's  fantasy  and  reverence  which  had  wound  themselves 
round  the  image  of  Eugenie,  subsided  into  that  gentle 
and  tender  melancholy  which,  perhaps,  by  weakening 
the  strength  of  the  sterner  thoughts;  leaves  us  inclined 
rather  to  receive  than  to  resist  a  new  attachment;  and 
on  the  verge  of  the  sweet  Memory  trembles  the  sweet 
Plope.  The  suspension  of  his  profession,  his  schemes, 
his  struggles,  his  career,  left  his  passions  unemployed. 
Vaudemont  was  thus  unconsciously  prepared  to  love. 
As  Ave  have  seen,  his  first  and  earliest  feelings  directed 
themselves  to  Fanny,  l^ut  he  had  so  immediately 
detected  the  danger,  and  so  immediately  recoiled  from 
nursing  those  thoughts  and  fancies,  without  which  love 
dies  for  want  of  food,  — for  a  person  to  whom  he  ascribed 
the  affliction  of  an  imbecility  which  would  give  to  such 
a  sentiment  all  the  attributes  either  of  the  weakest 
rashness  or  of  dishonor  approaching  to  sacrilege,  —  that 
the  wings  of  the  deity  were  scared  away  the  instant  their 
very  shadow  fell  upon  his  mind.  And  thus,  when 
Camilla  rose  upon  him,  his  heart  was  free  to  receive  her 
image.  Her  graces,  her  accomplishments,  a  certain 
nameless  charm  that  invested  her,  pleased  him  even  more 
than  her  beauty ;  the  recollections  connected  with  that 
first  time  in  which  he  had  ever  beheld  her  were  also 
grateful  and  endearing;  the  harshness  with  which  her 
parents  spoke  to  her  moved  his  compassion,  and  addressed 
itself  to  a  temper  peculiarly  alive  to  the  generosity  that 
leans  towards  the  weak  and  the  wronged;  the  engaging 
mixture  of  mildness  and  gayety  with  which  she  tended 
her  peevish  and  sneering  imcle,  convinced  him  of  her 
better  and  more  enduring   qualities  of  disposition   and 


220  i;ig:it  and  mornixg. 

womanly  heart.  And  even  —  so  strange  and  contra- 
dictory are  our  feelings  —  the  very  rememhrance  that 
she  was  connected  with  a  family  so  hateful  to  him  made 
her  own  image  the  more  bright  from  the  darkness  that 
surrounded  it.  For  was  it  not  with  the  daughter  of  his 
foe  that  the  lover  of  Verona  fell  in  love  at  first  sight  1 
And  is  not  tJnit  a  common  type  of  us  all,  —  as  if  passion 
delighted  in  contradictions'?  As  the  Diver,  in  Schiller's 
exquisite  ballad,  fastened  upon  the  rock  of  coral  in  the 
midst  of  the  gloomy  sea,  so  we  cling  tlie  more  gratefully 
to  whatever  of  fair  thought  and  gentle  shelter  smiles  out 
to  us  in  the  depths  of  hate  and  strife. 

But,  perhaps,  Vaudemont  would  not  so  suddenly  and 
so  utterly  have  rendered  himself  to  a  passion  that  began, 
already,  completely  to  master  his  strong  spirit,  if  he  had 
not,  from  Camilla's  embarrassment,  her  timidity,  her 
blushes,  intoxicated  himself  with  the  belief  that  his 
feelings  were  not  unshared.  And  who  knows  not  that 
such  a  belief,  once  clierished,  ripens  our  own  love  to  a 
development  in  wliich  hours  are  as  years  ? 

It  was,  then,  with  such  emotions  as  made  him  almost 
insensible  to  every  thought  but  the  luxury  of  breathing 
the  same  air  as  his  cousin,  which  swept  from  his  mind 
the  past,  the  future,  —  leaving  nothing  but  a  joyous,  a 
breathless  pkesent  on  the  face  of  Time,  —  that  he 
repaired    to    Beaufort    Court.      He    did    not   return    to 

H before  he  went,  but  he  wrote  to   Fanny  a  short 

and  hurried  line  to  explain  that  he  might  be  absent  for 
some  days  at  least,  and  promised  to  write  again,  if  he 
should  be  detained  longer  than  he  anticipated. 

In  the  meanwhile  one  of  those  successive  revolutions 
which  had  marked  the  eras  in  Fanny's  moral  existence, 
took  its  date  from  that  last  time  they  had  walked  and 
conversed  together. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  221 

The  very  evening  of  that  day,  some  hours  after  Philip 
was  gone,  and  after  Simon  had  retired  to  rest,  Fanny 
was  sitting  before  the  dying  fire  in  the  little  parlor  in 
an  attitude  of  deep  and  pensive  reverie.  The  old 
woman-servant,  Sarah,  who,  very  different  from  Mrs. 
Boxer,  loved  Fanny  with  her  whole  heart,  came  into 
the  room,  as  was  her  wont  before  going  to  bed,  to  see 
that  the  fire  Avas  duly  out,  and  all  safe:  and  as  she 
approached  the  hearth,  she  started  to  see  Fanny 
still    up. 

"Dear  heart  alive!"  she  said:  "why,  Miss  Fanny, 
you  will  catch  your  death  of  cold,  —  what  are  you 
thinking  about  ?  " 

"Sit  down,  Sarah;  I  want  to  speak  to  you."  Now, 
though  Fanny  was  exceedingly  kind  and  attached  to 
Sarah,  she  was  seldom  communicative  to  her,  or  indeed 
to  any  one.  It  was  usually  in  its  own  silence  and 
darkness  that  that  lovely  mind  worked  out  its  own. 
doubts. 

"  Do  you,  my  sweet  young  lady?  T  'm  sure  anything 
I  can  do  —  "  and  Sarah  seated  herself  in  her  master's 
great  chair,  and  drew  it  close  to  Fanny.  There  was  no 
light  in  the  room  but  the  expiring  fire,  and  it  threw 
upward  a  pale  glimmer  on  the  two  faces  bending  over  it: 
the  one  so  strangely  beautiful,  so  smooth,  so  blooming, 
so  exquisite  in  its  youth  and  innocence;  the  other 
withered,  wrinkled,  meagre,  and  astute.  It  was  like 
the  fairy  and  the  witch  together. 

"Well,  miss,"  said  the  crone,  observing  that,  after  a 
considerable  pause,  Fanny  was  still  silent,  — "  well  — " 

"  Sarah,  I  have  seen  a  wedding!  " 

"  Have  you  1  "  and  the  old  woman  laughed.  "  Oh ! 
I  heard  it  was  to  be  to-day !  —  young  Waldron's  wedding! 
Yes,  they  have  been  long  sweethearts- " 


222  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

"  "Were  you  ever  married ,  Sarah  1  " 

"Lord  l)less  you,  yes!  and  a  very  good  husband  I 
had,  poor  man!  But  he's  dead  these  many  years;  and 
if  you  had  not  taken  me,  I  must  have  gone  to  the 
workhus. " 

"He  is  dead!  Wasn't  it  very  hard  to  live  after 
that,  Sarah?" 

"  The  Lord  strengthens  the  hearts  of  widders ! " 
observed    Sarah,    sanctimoniously. 

"  Did  you  marry  your  brother,  Sarah?"  said  Fanny, 
playing  with  tlie  corner  of  her  apron. 

"  My  brother!  "  exclaimed  the  old  woman,  aghast. 
"  La!  miss,  you  must  not  talk  in  that  way,  —  it 's  quite 
wicked  and  heathenish !  One  must  not  marry  one's 
brother!" 

"  No!  "  said  Fanny,  trembling,  and  turning  very  pale, 
even  by  that  light.     "  No !  —  are  you  sure  of  that  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  wickedest  thing  even  to  talk  about,  my 
dear  young  mistress :  but  you  're  like  a  babby  unborn !  " 

Fanny  was  silent  for  some  moments.  At  length  she 
said,  unconscious  that  she  was  speaking  aloud,  "  But  he 
is  not  my  brother,  after  all !  " 

"Oh,  miss,  fie!  Are  you  letting  your  pretty  head 
run  on  the  handsome  gentleman?  Yo7i,  too,  —  dear, 
dear!  I  .see  we're  all  alike,  we  poor  femel  creturs! 
You!  who'd  have  thought  it?  Oh,  Miss  Fanny!  — 
yon  '11  break  your  heart  if  you  goes  for  to  fancy  any  such 
thing. " 

"  Any  what  thing?" 

"Why,  that  that  gentleman  will  marry  you!  I'm 
sure,  thof  he  's  so  simple  like,  he  's  .some  great  gentleman ! 
They  sny  his  boss  is  worth  a  hundred  pounds!  Dear, 
dear!  why  did  n't  I  ever  think  of  this  before  1  He  must 
be   a   very  wicked  man,     I   see,  now,   why   he   comes 


^IGET  AND   MORNING.  223 

here.    I  '11  speak  to  him,  that  I  will!  —  a  verij  wicked 
man!" 

Sarah  was  startled  from  her  indignation  by  Fanny's 
rising  suddenly  and  standing  hefore  her  in  the  flickering 
twilight,  almost  like  a  shape  transformed,  — so  tall  did 
she  seem,  so  stately,  so  dignified. 

"Is  it  of  him  that  you  are  speaking?  "  said  she,  in  a 
voice  of  calm  but  deep  resentment,  —  "  of  him!  If  so, 
Sarah,  we  two  can  live  no  more  in  the  same  house." 

And  these  words  were  said  with  a  propriety  and 
collecteduess  that  even,  through  all  her  terror,  showed 
at  once  to  Sarah  how  much  they  now  wronged  Fanny 
who  had  snfTered  their  lips  to  repeat  the  parrot-cry  of 
the  "idiot  girl." 

"  Oh !  gracious  me !  —  miss  —  ma'am  —  I  am  so  sorry 
• —  1  'd  rather  bite  out  my  tongue  than  .'^ay  a  word  to 
offend  you;  it  was  only  my  love  for  you,  dear  innocent 
creature  that  you  are !  "  and  the  honest  woman  sobbed 
with  real  passion  as  she  clasped  Fanny's  hand.  "  There 
have  been  so  many  young  persons,  good  and  harmless, 
yes,  even  as  you  are,  ruined.  But  you  don't  understand 
me.  ]\Iiss  Fanny !  hear  me ;  I  must  try  and  say  what  I 
would  say.  That  man,  tliat  gentleman  —  so  proud,  so 
well-dressed,  so  grandlike  —  will  never  marry  you, 
never,  never.  And  if  ever  he  says  he  does  love  you, 
and  you  say  you  loves  him,  and  you  two  don^t  marry, 
you  will  be  ruined  and  wicked,  and  die,  —  die  of  a 
broken  heart!  " 

The  earnestness  of  Sarah's  manner  subdued  and  almost 
awed  Fanny.  She  sunk  down  again  in  her  chair,  and 
sutleriMl  the  old  woman  to  caress  and  weep  over  her  hand 
for  some  moments,  in  a  silence  that  concealed  the  darkest 
and  most  agitated  feelings  Fanny's  life  had  hitherto 
known.      At  length  she  said,  — 


224  KIGHT   AND    MOKNING. 

"  \Yhy  may  lie  not  marry  me  if  he  loves  me?  —  he  is 
not  my  brother,  —  indeed  he  is  not !  I  '11  never  call 
him  so  again," 

"  He  cannot  marry  you,"  said  Sarah,  resolved,  with  a 
sort  of  rude  nobleness,  to  persevere  in  what  she  felt  to 
be  a  duty;  "  I  don't  say  anything  about  money,  because 
that  does  not  always  signify.  But  he  cannot  marry  you, 
because  —  because  people  who  are  hedicated  one  way 
never  marry  those  who  are  hedicated  and  brought  up  in 
another,  A  gentleman  of  that  kind  requires  a  wife  to 
know  —  oh  —  to  know  ever  so  much ;  and  7jou  —  " 

"  Sarah,"  interrupted  Fanny,  rising  again,  but  this 
time  with  a  smile  on  her  face,  "  don't  say  anything  more 
about  it;  I  forgive  you,  if  you  promise  never  to  speak 
unkindly  of  him  again, — never,  never,  never,  Sarah!" 

"  But  may  I  just  tell  him  that  —  that  —  " 

"  That  what  1  " 

"  That  you  are  so  young  and  innocent,  and  has  no 
pertector  like;  and  that  if  you  were  to  love  him  it  would 
be  a  shame  in  him,  —  that  it  would!  " 

And  then  (oh!  no,  Fanny,  there  was  nothing  clouded 
noio  in  your  reason !)  —  and  then  the  woman's  alarm, 
the  modesty,  the  instinct,  the  terror  came  upon  her: 

"  Never!  never!  I  will  not  love  him,  —  I  do  not  love 
him,  indeed,  Sarah.  If  you  speak  to  him,  I  will  never 
look  you  in  the  face  again.  It  is  all  past, — all,  dear 
Sarah!" 

She  kissed  the  old  woman;  and  Sarah,  fancying  that 
her  sagacity  and  counsel  had  prevailed,  promised  all  she 
was  asked;  so  they  went  upstairs  together,  — friends. 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  225 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

As  the  wind 
Sobs,  an  uiicertaiu  sweetness  comes  from  out 
The  orange-trees. 

Rise  up,  Olympia.  —  She  sleeps  soundly.     Ho  ! 

Stirring  at  last. 

Barry  Cornwall. 

The  next  day  Fanny  was  seen  liy  Sarah  counting  the 
little  hoard  that  she  had  so  long  and  so  painfully  saved 
for  her  benefactor's  tomb.  The  money  was  no  longer, 
wanted  for  that  object.  Fanny  had  found  another;  she 
said  nothing  to  Sarah  or  to  Simon.  But  there  Avas  a 
strange  complacent  smile  upon  lier  lip,  as  she  busied 
herself  in  her  work,  tliat  puzzled  the  old  woman.  Late 
at  noon  came  the  postman's  unwonted  knock  at  the  door. 
A  letter!  —  a  letter  for  Miss  Fanny.  A  letter!  —  the 
first  she  had  ever  received  in  her  life!  And  it  v/as  froni 
him!  —  and  it  began  with  "  Dear  Fanny."  Vaudemont 
had  called  her  "  dear  Fanny  "  a  hundred  times,  and  the 
expression  had  become  a  matter  of  cour.se.  But  "  Dear 
Fanny  "  seemed  so  very  diiferent  when  it  was  written. 
The  letter  could  not  well  be  .shorter,  nor,  all  things  con- 
sidered, colder.  But  the  girl  found  no  fault  with  it.  Jt 
began  with  "  Dear  Fanny,"  and  it  ended  with  "  Yours 
truly. "  "  '  Yours  truly, '  —  mine  truly,  —  and  how  kind 
to  write  at  all!  "  Now  it  so  happened  that  Vaudemont, 
having  never  merged  the  art  of  the  penman  into  that 
rapid   scrawl   into  which  people,  who  are  compelled  to 

VOL.   IL  —  15 


226  NIGHT    AND    MOKN.'NG. 

write  hnrrieillj'  and  constantly,  degenerate,  wrote  a 
remarkably  good  hand,  —  1x)ld,  clear,  symmetrical: 
almost  too  good  a  hand  for  one  wlio  was  not  to  make 
money  by  calligraphy.  And  after  Fanny  had  got  the 
words  by  heart,  she  stole  gently  to  a  cupboard  and 
took  forth  some  specimens  of  her  own  hand,  in  tlie 
shape  of  house  and  work  memoranda,  and  extracts  which, 
the  better  to  help  her  memory,  she  had  made  from  the 
poem-book  Vaudemont  had  given  her.  She  gravel}' 
laid  his  letter  by  the  side  of  these  specimens,  and 
blushed  at  the  contrast;  yet,  after  all,  her  own  writing, 
though  trembling  and  irresolute,  was  far  from  a  bad 
or  vulgar  hand.  But  emulation  was  now  fairly  roused 
within  her.  Vaudemont,  preoccupied  by  more  engrossing 
thoughts,  and,  indeed,  forgetting  a  danger  which  had 
seemed  so  thoroughly  to  have  passed  away,  did  not  in 
his  letter  caution  Fanny  against  going  out  alone.  She 
remarked  this:  and  having  completely  recovered  her 
own  alarm  at  the  attempt  that  had  been  made  on  her 
liberty,  she  thought  she  was  now  released  from  her 
promise  to  guard  against  a  past  and  imaginary  peril.  So 
after  dinner  she  slipped  out  alone,  and  went  to  the 
mistress  of  the  school  where  she  had  received  her 
elementary  education.  She  had  ever  since  continued 
her  acquaintance  with  that  lady,  who,  kind-hearted, 
and  touched  by  her  situation,  often  employed  her 
industry,  and  was  far  from  blind  to  the  improvement 
that  had  for  some  time  been  silently  working  in  the 
mind  of  her  old  pupil. 

Fanny  had  a  long  conversation  with  this  lady,  and  she 
brought  back  a  bundle  of  books.  The  light  might  have 
been  seen  that  night,  and  many  nights  after,  burning 
long  and  late  from  her  little  window.  And  having 
recovered    her  old  freedom  of  habits,  —  which   Simon, 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  227 

poor  man,  did  not  notice,  and  which  Sarah,  thinking 
tliat  anything  was  better  than  moping  at  home,  did  not 
remonstrate  against,  —  Fanny  went  out  regularly  for 
two  hours,  or  sometimes  for  even  a  longer  period,  every 
evening  after  old  Simon  hail  composed  himself  to  the 
nap  that  filled  up  the  interval  between  dinner  and  tea. 

In  a  very  short  time  —  a  time  that  with  ordinary 
stimulants  would  have  seemed  marvellously  sliort  — 
Fanny's  handwriting  was  not  the  same  thing;  her 
manner  of  talking  became  different;  she  no  longer 
called  herself  "  Fanny  "  when  she  spoke ;  the  music  of 
her  voice  was  more  quiet  and  settled ;  her  sweet  expres- 
sion of  face  was  more  thoughtful ;  the  eyes  seemed  to 
have  deepened  in  their  very  color;  she  was  no  longer 
heard  chanting  to  herself  as  she  tripped  along.  The 
books  that  she  nightly  fed  on  had  passed  into  her  mind ; 
the  poetry  that  had  ever  unconsciously  sported  round 
her  young  years  began  now  to  create  poetry  in  herself. 
Xay,  it  might  almost  have  seemed  as  if  that  restless 
disorder  of  the  intellect,  which  the  dullards  had  called 
idiocy,  had  been  the  wild  efforts,  not  of  folly,  but  of 
GENIUS  seeking  to  find  its  path  and  OTitlet  from  the  cold 
and  dreary  solitude  to  which  the  circumstances  of  her 
early  life  had  compelled  it. 

Days,  even  weeks,  passed,  ■ —  she  never  spoke  of 
Vaudemont.  And  once,  when  Sarah,  astonished  and 
bewildered  by  the  change  in  her  young  mistress, 
asked,  — 

"  When  does  the  gentleman  come  back  1  " 

Fanny  answered,  with  a  mysterious  smile,  "  Is'ot  yet, 
I  hojje,  —  not  quite  yet!  " 


228  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

Thierri/.  —  I  do  begin 

To  feel  an  alteration  in  my  nature, 

And  in  his  full-sailed  coutidence  a  shower 

Of  gentle  rain,  that  falling  on  the  fire 

Hath  quenched  it. 

How  is  my  heart  divided 
Between  the  duty  of  a  son  and  love  ! 
Bealmoxt  and  Fjletchek:   Tltierry  and  Theodoret. 

Vaudemoxt  liad  now  been  a  month  at  Beaufort  Court. 
The  scene  of  a  country-house,  with  the  sports  that 
enliven  it,  and  the  accomplishments  it  calls  forth,  was 
one  in  which  he  was  well  fitted  to  shine.  He  had  been 
an  excellent  shot  as  a  boy;  and,  though  long  unused  to 
the  fowling-piece,  had,  in  India,  acquired  a  deadly  pre- 
cision with  the  rifle;  so  that  a  very  few  days  of  practice 
in  the  stubbles  and  covers  of  Beaufort  Court  made  his 
skill  the  theme  of  the  guests  and  the  admiration  of  the 
keepers.  Hunting  began,  and  this  pursuit,  always  so 
strong  a  passion  in  the  active  man,  and  which,  to  the 
turbulence  and  agitation  of  his  half-tamed  breast,  now 
excited  by  a  kind  of  fronzy  of  hope  and  fear,  gave  a 
vent  and  release,  was  a  sport  in  which  he  was  yet  more 
fitted  to  excel.  His  horsemanship,  his  daring,  the 
stone  walls  he  leaped,  and  the  floods  through  which  he 
dashed,  furnished  his  companions  with  wondering  tale 
and  comment  on  their  return  home.  Mr.  Marsden,  who, 
with  some  other  of  Arthur's  early  friends,  had  been 
invited   to   Beaufort   Court,    in   order   to    welcome    its 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  229 

expected  heir,  and  who  retained  all  the  prudence  which 
liad  distinguished  him  of  yore  when,  having  ridden  over 
old  Simon,  he  dismounted  to  examine  the  knees  of  his 
horse;  Mr.  ISIarsden,  a  skilful  huntsman,  who  rode 
the  most  experienced  horses  in  the  world,  and  who 
generally  contrived  to  be  in  at  the  death,  without  having 
leaped  over  anything  higher  than  a  hurdle,  suffering 
the  bolder  quadruped  (in  case  what  is  called  the  "  knowl- 
edge of  the  country  "  —  that  is,  the  knowledge  of  gaps 
and  gates  —  failed  him)  to  perform  the  more  dangerous 
feats  alone,  as  he  quietly  scrambled  over,  or  scrambled 
through,  upon  foot,  and  remounted  the  well-taught 
animal  when  it  halted  after  the  exploit,  safe  and  sound, 
—  ]Mr.  Marsden  declared  that  he  never  saw  a  rider  with 
so  little  judgment  as  Monsieur  de  Vaudemont,  and  that 
the  devil  was  certainly  in  him. 

This  sort  of  reputation,  commonplace  and  merely 
physical  as  it  was  in  itself,  had  a  certain  effect  upon 
Camilla;  it  might  be  an  effect  of  fear.  I  do  not  say,  for 
I  do  not  know,  what  her  feelings  towards  Vaudemont 
exactly  were.  As  the  calmest  natures  are  often  those 
the  most  hurried  away  by  their  contraries,  so,  perhaps, 
he  awed  and  dazzled  rather  than  pleased  her:  at  least, 
he  certainly  forced  himself  on  her  interest.  Still  she 
would  have  started  in  terror  if  any  one  had  said  to  her, 
"  Do  you  love  your  betrothed  less  than  when  you  met  by 
that  happy  lake  1  "  —  and  her  heart  would  have  indig- 
nantly rebuked  the  questioner.  The  letters  of  her 
lover  were  still  long  and  frequent;  hers  were  briefer 
and  more  subdued.  But  then  there  was  constraint  in 
the  correspondence,  —  it  was  submitted  to  her  mother. 
Whatever  might  be  Vaudemont's  manner  to  Camilla 
whenever  occasion  threw  them  alone  together,  he  cer- 
tainly did  not  make  his  attentions  glaring  enough  to  be 


230  NIGHT   AND    MORNIXG. 

remarked.  His  eye  watched  her  rather  than  his  lip 
addressed ;  lie  kept  as  much  aloof  as  possible  from  the 
rest  of  her  family,  and  his  customary  bearing  was  silent 
even  to  gloom.  But  there  were  moments  when  he 
indulged  in  a  fitful  exuberance  of  spirits,  Avhich  had  ii 
something  strained  and  unnatural.  He  had  outlived  ' 
Lord  Lilburne's  short  liking;  for  since  he  had  resolved 
no  longer  to  keep  watch  on  that  noble  gamester's 
method  of  play,  he  played  but  little  himself;  and  Lord 
Lilburne  saw  that  he  had  no  chance  of  ruining  him,  — 
there  was,  therefore,  no  longer  any  reason  to  like  him. 
But  this  was  not  all ;  Avhen  Vaudemont  had  been  at 
the  house  somewhat  more  than  two  weeks,  Lilburne, 
petulant  and  impatient,  whether  at  his  refusals  to  join 
the  card-table,  or  at  the  moderation  with  which,  when 
he  did,  he  confined  his  ill-luck  to  petty  losses,  one 
day  limped  up  to  him,  as  he  stood  at  the  embrasure 
of  the  window,  gazing  on  the  wide  lands  beyond,  and 
said, — 

"  Vaudemont,  you  are  bolder  in  hunting,  they  tell 
me,  than  you  are  at  whist. " 

"  Honors  don't  tell  against  one,  —  over  a  hedge!  " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Lilburne,  rather 
haughtily. 

Vaudemont  was,  at  that  moment,  in  one  of  those  bitter 
moods  when  the  sense  of  his  situation,  the  sight  of  the 
usurper  in  his  home,  often  swept  away  the  gentler 
thoughts  inspired  by  his  fatal  passion.  And  the  tone 
of  Lord  Lilburne,  and  his  loathing  to  the  man,  were 
too  much  for  his  temper. 

"  Lord  Lilburne,"  lie  said,  and  his  lip  curled,  "  if  you 
had  been  born  poor,  you  would  have  made  a  great  for- 
tune,—  you  play  luckily." 

"  How  am  I  to  take  this,  sir  1  " 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  231 

"  As  you  please,"  answered  Vaudemont,  calmly,  but 
with  an  eye  of  fire.      And  he  turned  away. 

Lilburne  remained  on  the  spot  very  thoughtful : 
"  Hum!  he  suspects  me.  I  cannot  quarrel  on  such 
ground :  the  suspicion  itself  dishonors  me,  —  I  must  seek 
another. " 

The  next  day  Lilburne,  who  was  familiar  with  Mr. 
Marsden  (though  the  latter  gentleman  never  played  at 
the  same  table) ,  asked  that  prudent  person  after  break- 
fast, if  he  happened  to  have  his  pistols  Avith  him. 

"Yes;  I  always  take  them  into  the  country,  —  one 
may  as  well  practise  Avhen  one  has  the  opportunity. 
Besides,  sportsmen  are  often  quarrelsome;  and  if  it  is 
known  that  one  shoots  well,  —  it  keeps  one  out  of 
quarrels !  " 

"Very  true,"  said  Lilburne,  rather  admiringly;  "I 
have  made  the  same  remark  myself  when  I  was  younger, 
I  have  not  shot  with  a  pistol  for  some  years.  I  am  well 
enough  now  to  walk  out  Avith  the  help  of  a  stick. 
Suppose  we  practise  for  half  an  hour  or  so." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  Mr.  Marsden. 

The  pistols  were  brought,  and  they  strolled  forth; 
Lord  Lilburne  found  his  hand  out. 

"As  I  never  hunt  now,"  said  the  peer,  and  he 
gnashed  his  teeth,  and  glanced  at  his  maimed  limb; 
"for  though  lameness  would  not  prevent  my  keeping 
my  seat,  violent  exercise  hurts  my  leg;  and  Brodie  says 
any  frcvsh  accident  iniglit  bring  on  tic  douloureux:  and  as 
my  gout  does  not  permit  me  to  join  the  shooting-parties 
at  present,  it  would  be  a  kindness  in  you  to  lend  me 
your  pistols,  —  it  would  while  away  an  hour  or  so; 
though,  thank  Heaven,  my  duelling  days  are  over!  " 

"Certainly,"  said  'Slv.  IMarsden;  and  the  pistols  were 
consigned  to  Lord  Lilburne. 


232  NIGHT   AND   MOKNING. 

Four  days  from  the  date,  as  Mr.  Marsden,  Vaudemont, 
and  some  other  gentlemen,  were  making  for  the  covers, 
they  came  upon  Lord  Lilburne,  who,  in  a  part  of  the 
park  not  within  sight  or  sound  of  the  house,  was  amusing 
himself  with  Mr.  Marsden's  pistols,  which  Dykeman 
was  at  hand  to  load  for  him.  He  turned  round,  not  at 
all  disconcerted  by  the  interruption. 

"You  have  no  idea  how  1  'm  improved,  Marsden, — • 
just  see !  "  and  he  pointed  to  a  glove  nailed  to  a  tree. 
"I've  hit  that  mark  twice  in  five  times;  and  every 
time  I  have  gone  straight  enough  along  the  line  to 
have  killed  my  man." 

",Ay,  the  mark  itself  does  not  so  much  signify,"  said 
Mr.  ^larsden :  "  at  least,  not  in  actual  duelling,  —  the 
great  tiling  is  to  be  in  the  line." 

While  he  spoke.  Lord  Lilburne's  ball  went  a  third 
time  through  the  glove.  His  cold,  bright  eye  turned 
on  Vaudemont,  as  he  said,  with  a  smile,  — 

"They  tell  me  you  shoot  well  with  a  fowling-piece, 
my  dear  Vaudemont,  —  are  you  equally  adroit  with  a 
pistol ?  " 

"  You  may  see ,  if  you  like ;  but  yoit  take  aim ,  Lord 
Lilburne;  that  would  be  of  no  use  in  English  duelling. 
Permit  me." 

He  walked  to  the  glove,  and  tore  from  it  one  of  the 
fingers,  which  he  fastened  separately  to  the  tree,  took 
the  pistol  from  Dykeman  as  he  walked  past  him,  gained 
the  spot  whence  to  fire,  turned  at  once  round,  without 
apparent  aim,  and  the  finger  fell  to  the  ground. 

Jjilburne  stood  aghast. 

"That's  wonderful!"  said  Marsden, — "quite  won- 
derful. Where  the  devil  did  you  get  such  a  knack?  — 
for  it  is  only  knack  after  all!  " 

"  I  lived  for  many  years  in  a  country  where  the  practice 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  233 

was  constant,  where  all  tliat  belongs  to  rifle-shooting 
was  a  necessary  accomplislunent, — a  country  in  which 
man  had  often  to  contend  against  the  wild  beast.  In 
civilized  states,  man  himself  supplies  the  place  of  the 
wild  beast, —  but  we  don't  hunt  him  !  —  Lord  Lilburne," 
—  and  this  was  added  with  a  smiling  and  disdainful 
whisper,  —  "you  must  practise  a  little  more." 

But  disregardful  of  the  advice,  from  that  day  Lord 
Lilburne's  morning  occupation  was  gone.  He  thought 
no  longer  of  a  duel  with  Vaudemont.  As  soon  as  the 
sportsman  had  left  him,  he  bade  Dykeman  take  up  the 
pistols,  and  walked  straight  home  into  the  library,  where 
Robert  Beaufort,  who  was  no  sportsman,  generally 
spent  his  mornings. 

He  flung  himself  into  an  arm-chair,  and  said,  as  he 
stirred  the  fire  with  unusual  vehemence,  — 

"Beaufort,  I'm  very  sorry  I  asked  you  to  invite 
Vaudemont.     He  's  a  very  ill-bred,  disagreeable  fellow!  " 

Beaufort  threw  down  his  steward's  account-book,  on 
which  he  was  employed,  and  replied,  — 

"  Lilburne,  I  have  never  had  an  easy  moment  since 
that  man  has  been  in  the  house.  As  he  was  your  guest 
I  did  not  like  to  speak  before;  but  don't  you  observe  — 
you  viust  observe  — •  how  like  he  is  to  the  old  family 
portraits?  The  more  I  have  examined  him  the  more 
another  resemblance  grows  upon  me.  In  a  word,"  said 
Robert,  pausing  and  breathing  hard,  "  if  liis  name  were 
not  Vaudemont,  if  his  history  were  not,  apparently ,  so 
well  known,  I  should  say,  —  I  should  swear,  that  it  is 
Philip  Morton  who  sleeps  under  this  roof!  " 

"Ha!"  said  Lilburne,  with  an  earnestness  that  sur- 
prised Beaufort,  who  expected  to  have  heard  his  brother- 
in-law's  sneering  sarcasm  at  his  fears;  "the  likeness 
you  speak  of  to  the  old  portraits  did  strike  me:  it  struck 


234  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

jVIarsden,  too,  the  other  day,  as  we  were  passing  through 
the  picture-gallery;  and  Marsden  remarked  it  aloud  to 
Vaudemont.  I  remember  now  that  he  changed  counte- 
nance and  made  no  answer.  Hush!  hush!  hold  your 
tongue,  let  me  think,  —  let  me  think.  This  Philip  — 
yes,  yes;  1  and  Arthur  saw  him  with  —  with  Gawtrey 
—  in  Paris  —  " 

"  Gawtrey !  was  that  the  name  of  the  rogue  he  was 
said  to  —  " 

"Yes,  yes,  yes.  Ah!  now  I  guess  the  meaning  of 
those  looks,  —  those  words,"  muttered  Lilburne,  between 
his  teeth.  "  This  pretension  to  the  name  of  Vaudemont 
was  always  apocryphal, — the  story  always  but  half 
believed;  the  invention  of  a  woman  in  love  with  him; 
the  claim  on  your  property  is  made  at  the.  very  time  he 
appears  in  England.  Ha !  have  you  a  newspaper  there  ? 
Give  it  me.  No!  'tis  not  in  this  paper.  Ring  the  bell 
for  the  file!" 

"  What 's  the  matter?  —  you  terrify  me!  "  gasped  out 
Mr.  PJeaufort,  as  he  rang  the  bell. 

"  Why !  have  you  not  seen  an  advertisement  repeated 
several  times  within  the  last  month  1  " 

"  I  never  read  advertisements,  except  in  the  county 
paper  if  land  is  to  1)0  sohl." 

"Nor  I  often;  but  this  caught  my  eye.  John,"  — 
here  the  servant  entered,  —  "  bring  the  file  of  the  news- 
papers. The  name  of  the  witness  whom  Mrs.  Morton 
appealed  to  was  Smith,  the  same  name  as  the  captain; 
what  was  the  Christian  name  1  " 

"  r  don't  remember." 

"Here  are  the  papers;  shut  the  door,  —  and  here  is 
the  advertisement:  '  H  Mr.  William  Smith,  son  of 
Jeremiah  Smith,  wlio  formerly  rented  the  farm  of 
Shipdale-Bury,    under    the    late    Right   Hon.    Charles 


NIGHT    AND   MORNING.  235 

Leopold  Beaufort,'  —  that  's  your  uucle,  —  *  and  who 
emigrated  in  the  year  18 —  to  Australia,  will  apply  to 
'Mv.  Barlow,  Solicitor,  Essex  Street,  Strand,  he  will 
hear  of  something  to  his  advantage. '  " 

"  Good  heavens!  why  did  not  you  mention  this  to  me 
before  1 " 

"  Because  I  did  not  think  it  of  any  importance.  In, 
the  first  place,  there  might  he  some  legacy  left  to  the 
man,  quite  distinct  from  your  business,  —  indeed,  that 
was  the  probable  supposition ;  or  even  if  connected 
with  the  claim,  such  an  advertisement  might  be  but  a 
despicable  attempt  to  frighten  you.  Never  mind: 
don't  look  so  pale,  —  after  all,  this  is  a  proof  that  the 
witness  is  not  found ;  tliat  Captain  Smith  is  neither 
the  Smith,  nor  has  discovered  where  the  Smith  is !  " 

"  True !  "  observed  Mr.  Beaufort :  "  true ,  —  very 
true!" 

"  Humph!  "  said  Lord  Lilburne,  who  was  still  rapidly 
glancing  over  the  file,  —  "  here  is  another  advertisement 
Avhich  I  never  saw  before.  This  looks  suspicious:  '  If 
the  person  who  called  on  the  —  of  September  on  Mr. 

Morton,    linendraper,    etc. ,  of    X ,   will    renew  his 

application  personally  or  by  letter,  he  may  now  obtain 
the  information  he  sought  for. '  " 

"Morton! — the  woman's  brother!  their  uncle!  it  ia 
too  clear!  " 

"  But  what  brings  this  man,  if  he  be  really  Philip 
Morton ,  what  brings  him  here  1  —  to  spy  or  to  threaten  1  " 

"  I  will  get  him  out  of  the  house  this  day." 

"  No,  no;  turn  the  watch  upon  himself.  I  see  now: 
he  is  attracted  by  your  daughter ;  sound  her  quietly ; 
don't  tell  her  to  discourage  his  confidences;  find  out 
if  he  ever  speaks  of  these  Mortons.  Ha!  I  recollect: 
he  has  spoken  to  me  of  the  Mortons,  Tnit  vaguely,  — T 


236  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

forget  what.  Humph!  this  is  a  man  of  spirit  and 
daring:  Avatch  him,  I  say,  —  watch  him!  When  does 
Arthur  come  back?  " 

"  He  has  been  travelling  so  slowly,  for  he  still  com- 
plains of  his  healtli,  and  has  had  relapses;  but  he  ought 
to  be  in  Paris  this  week,  perhaps  he  is  there  now. 
Good  heavens !  he  must  not  meet  this  man !  " 

"  Do  what  I  tell  you!  get  out  all  from  your  daughter. 
Kever  fear :  he  can  do  nothing  against  you  except  by 
law.     But  if  he  really  like  Camilla  —  " 

"  He !  —  Philip  Morton  —  the  adventurer,  the  —  " 

"He  is  the  eldest  son:  remember,  you  thought  even 
of  accepting  the  second.  He  maz/  find  the  witness,  — 
lie  may  win  his  suit;  if  he  like  Camilla,  there  viay  be 
a  compromise. " 

Mr.  P>eaufort  felt  as  if  turned  to  ice. 

"  You  think  him  likely  to  win  this  infamous  suit, 
then  1  "  he  faltered. 

"  Did  not  you  guard  against  the  possibility  by  secur- 
ing the  brother  ?  —  more  worth  while  to  do  it  with  this 
man.  Hark  ye!  the  politics  of  private  are  like  those  of 
puldic  life,  —when  the  state  can't  crush  a  demagogue,  it 
should  entice  him  over.  If  you  can  ruin  this  dog,"  — 
and  Lilburne  stamped  his  foot  fiercely,  forgetful  of  the 
gout, — '  ruin  him!  hang  him!  If  you  can't,"  —  and 
here  with  a  wry  face  he  caressed  the  injured  foot,  —  "  if 
you  can't  ('sdeath,  what  a  twinge!)  and  he  can  ruin  i/ou, 
bring  him  into  the  family,  and  make  his  secret  ours! 
I  must  go  and  lie  down,  I  have  over-excited  myself." 

In  great  perplexity  Beaufort  repaired  at  once  to 
Camilla.  His  nervous  agitation  betrayed  itself,  though 
he  smiled  a  ghastly  smile,  and  intended  to  be  exceeding 
cool  and  collected.  His  questions,  which  confused  and 
alarmed  her,  soon  drew  out  the  fact,  that  the  very  first 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  237 

time  Vaudemont  had  been  introduced  to  her,  he  had 
spoken  of  the  Mortons;  and  that  he  had  often  after- 
wards alluded  to  the  subject,  and  seemed  at  first  strongly 
impressed  with  the  notion  that  the  younger  brother 
was  under  Ueaufort's  protection ;  though  at  last  he 
appeared  reluctantly  convinced  of  the  contrary.  Robert, 
however  agitated,  preserved  at  least  enough  of  his 
natural  slyness  not  to  let  out  that  he  sus])ected  Vaude- 
mont to  be  Philip  Morton  himself,  for  he  feared  lest  his 
daughter  should  betray  that  suspicion  to  its  object. 

"  l^ut,"  he  said,  with  a  look  meant  to  win  confidence, 
"  I  dare  say  he  knows  these  young  men.  I  should  like 
myself  to  know  more  about  them.  Learn  all  you  can, 
and  tell  me;  and,  I  say  —  I  say,  Camilla,  —  he!  he!  he! 

—  you  have  made  a  conquest,  you  little  fiirt,  you!  Did 
he,  this  Vaudemont,  ever  say  how  much  he  admired 
you?" 

"He?  —  never!"  said  Camilla,  blushing,  and  then 
turning  pale. 

"But  he  looks  it.  Ah!  you  say  nothing,  then. 
Well,  well,  don't  discourage  him;  that  is  to  say,  — yes, 
don't  discourage  him.     Talk  to  him  as  much  as  you  can, 

—  ask  him  about  his  own  early  life.  I  've  a  particular 
wish  to  know,  —  't  is  of  great  importance  to  me." 

"But,  my  dear  father,"  said  Camilla,  trembling, 
and  thoroughly  bewildered,  "  I  fear  this  man,  —  I  fear 

—  I  fear  —  " 

Was  she  going  to  add,  "  I  fear  myself?  "  I  know 
not;  but  she  stopped  short,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Hang  these  girls !  "  muttered  Mr.  Beaufort,  "  always 
crying  when  they  ought  to  be  of  use  to  one.  Go  down, 
dry  your  eyes,  do  as  I  tell  you,  —  get  all  you  can  from 
him.  Fear  him!  —  yes,  I  dare  say  she  does!  "  muttered 
the  poor  man,  as  he  closed  the  door. 


238  KIGHT   AND    MOIINING. 

From  tliat  time  what  wonder  that  Camilla's  manner 
to  Vaudemont  was  yet  more  embarrassed  than  ever; 
wliat  wonder  that  he  put  his  own  heart's  interpretation 
on  that  confusion.  Beaufort  took  care  to  thrust  her 
more  often  than  before  in  his  way ;  he  suddenly  affected 
a  creeping,  fawning  civility  to  Vaudemont;  he  was  sure 
he  was  fond  of  music ;  what  did  he  think  of  that  new 
air  Camilla  was  so  fond  of?  He  must  be  a  judge  of 
scenery ,  he  who  had  seen  so  much :  there  were  beautiful 
landscapes  in  the  neighborhood,  and  if  he  would  forego 
his  sports,  Camilla  drew  prettily,  had  an  eye  for  that 
sort  of  thing,  and  was  so  fond  of  riding. 

Vaudemont  was  astonished  at  this  change,  but  his 
delight  was  greater  than  the  astonishment.  He  began 
to  perceive  that  his  identity  was  suspected;  perhaps 
Beaufort,  more  generous  than  he  had  deemed  him,  meant 
to  repay  every  early  wrong  or  harshness  by  one  inesti- 
mable blessing.  The  generous  interpret  motives  in 
extremes,  —  ever  too  enthusiastic  or  too  severe.  Vaude- 
mont felt  as  if  he  had  wronged  the  wronger;  he  began 
to  conquer  even  his  dislike  to  Robert  Beaufort.  For 
some  days  he  was  thus  thrown  much  with  Camilla;  the 
questions  her  father  forced  her  to  put  to  him,  uttered 
tremulously  and  fearfully,  seemed  to  him  proofs  of 
her  interest  in  his  fate.  His  feelings  to  Camilla,  so 
sudden  in  their  growth,  so  ripened  and  so  favored  by  the 
sub-ruler  of  the  world,  circumstance,  might  not, 
perhaps,  have  the  depth  and  the  calm  completeness  of 
that  one  true  love,  of  which  there  are  many  counterfeits, 
—  and  whicli  in  man,  at  least,  possibly  requires  the 
touch  and  mellowness,  if  not  of  time,  at  least  of  many 
memories;  of  perfect  and  tried  conviction  of  the  faith, 
the  worth,  the  value,  and  the  beauty  of  the  heart  to 
which  it  clings,  —  but  those  feelings  were,  nevertheless, 


NIGHT   AND    MOliNING.  239 

strong,  ardent,  and  intense.  He  believed  himself  be- 
loved, —  lie  was  in  Elysium.  But  he  did  not  yet  declare 
the  passion  that  beamed  in  his  eyes.  No!  he  would 
not  yet  claim  the  hand  of  Camilla  Beaufort,  for  he 
imagined  the  time  would  soon  come  when  he  could 
claim  it,  not  as  the  inferior  or  the  suppliant,  but  as  the 
lord  uf  her  father's  fate. 


240  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 


CHAPTER   X. 

Here  's  somethiug  got  amongst  us !  —  Knight  of  Malta, 

Two  or  three  nights  after  his  memorable  conversation 
•with  Robert  Beaufort,  as  Lord  Lilburne  was  undressing, 
lie  said  to  his  valet, — 

"Dykeman,  I  am  getting  well." 

"  Indeed,  my  lord,  I  never  saw  your  lordship  look 
better. " 

"  There  you  lie.  I  looked  better  last  year,  —  I  looked 
better  the  year  before;  and  I  looked  better  and  better 
every  year  back  to  the  age  of  twenty-one!  Rut  I  'm  not 
talking  of  looks,  no  man  with  money  wants  looks.  I 
am  talking  of  feelings.  I  feel  better.  The  gout  is 
almost  gone.  I  have  been  quiet  now  for  a  month : 
that 's  a  long  time,  —  time  wasted  when,  at  my  age,  I 
have  so  little  time  to  waste.  Besides,  as  you  know,  I 
am  very  much  in  love !  " 

"  In  love ,  my  lord  ?  I  thought  that  you  told  me 
never  to  speak  of  —  " 

"  Blockhead !  what  the  deuce  was  the  good  of  speaking 
about  it  when  I  was  wrapped  in  flannels  1  I  am  never 
in  love  when  I  am  ill,  —  avIio  is?  I  am  well  now,  or 
nearly  so;  and  I  've  had  things  to  vex  me,  —  things  to 
make  this  place  very  disagreeable;  I  shall  go  to  town, 
and  before  this  day  week  perhaps,  that  charming  face 
may  enliven  the  solitude  of  Fernside.  I  shall  look  to 
it  myself  now.  I  see  you  're  going  to  say  something. 
Spare  yourself  the  trouble !  nothing  ever  goes  wrong  if 
/  myself  take  it  in  hand." 


NIGHT   AND   MOIINING.  241 

The  next  day  Lord  Lillmrne  —  who,  in  truth,  felt 
himself  unconifortahle  and  gene  in  the  presence  of 
Vaudemont;  who  had  won  as  mucli  as  the  guests  at 
Beaufort  Court  seemed  inclined  to  lose;  and  who  made 
it  the  rule  of  his  life  to  consult  his  own  pleasure  and 
amusement  before  anything  else  —  sent  for  his  post- 
horses,  and  informed  his  hrother-in-law  of  his  departure. 

"  And  you  leave  me  alone  with  this  man  just  when  I 
am  convinced  that  he  is  the  person  we  suspected!  My 
dear  Lilburne,  do  stay  till  he  goes." 

"  Impossible!  I  am  between  fifty  and  sixty,  —  every 
moment  is  precious  at  that  time  of  life.  Besides,  I  've 
said  all  I  can  say;  rest  quiet,  act  on  the  defensive, 
entangle  this  cursed  Vaudemont,  or  Morton,  or  whoever 
he  be,  in  the  mesh  of  your  daughter's  charms,  and  then 
get  rid  of  him,  not  before.  This  can  do  no  harm,  let 
the  matter  turn  out  how  it  will.  Read  the  papers;  and 
send  for  Blackwell  if  you  want  advice  on  any  new 
advertisements.  I  don't  see  that  anything  more  is  to 
be  done  at  present.  You  can  write  to  me;  I  shall 
be  at  Park  Lane  or  Fernside.  Take  care  of  yourself. 
You're  a  lucky  fellow, — you  never  have  the  gout! 
Good-by." 

And  in  half  an  hour  Lord  Lilburne  was  on  the  road 
to  London. 

The  departure  of  Lilburne  was  a  signal  to  many 
others,  especially  and  naturally  to  those  he  himself  had 
invited.  He  had  not  announced  to  such  visitors  his 
intention  of  going  till  his  carriage  was  at  the  door. 
This  might  be  delicacy  or  carelessness,  just  as  people 
chose  to  take  it:  and  how  they  did  take  it.  Lord  Lil- 
burne, much  too  selfish  to  be  well-bred,  did  not  care  a 
rush.  The  next  day,  half,  at  least,  of  the  guests  were 
gone;  and  even  Mr,    ^Marsden,  who  had  been  specially 

VOL.  II.  — 16 


242  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

invited  on  Arthur's  account,  announced  that  he  sliould 
go  after  dinner!  he  always  travelled  by  night:  he  slept 
well  on  the  road,  —  a  day  was  not  lost  by  it. 

"And  it  is  so  long  since  you  saw  Arthur,"  said  Mr. 
Beaufort,  in  remonstrance,  "  and  I  expect  him  every  day. " 

"  Very  sorry,  —  best  fellow  in  the  world ;  but  the  fact 
is,  that  I  am  not  very  well  myself.  I  want  a  little 
sea  air;  I  shall  go  to  Dover  or  Brighton.  But  1  suppose 
you  Avill  have  the  house  full  again  about  Christmas; 
in  that  case,  I  shall  be  delighted  to  repeat  my  visit." 

Tlie  fact  was,  that  Mr.  Marsden,  without  Lilburne's 
intellect  on  the  one  hand  or  vices  on  the  other,  was, 
like  that  noble  sensualist,  one  of  the  broken  pieces  of 
the  great  looking-glass  "  self.  "  He  was  noticed  in 
society  as  always  haunting  the  places  where  Lilburne 
played  at  cards,  carefully  choosing  some  other  table, 
and  as  carefully  betting  upon  Lilburne's  side.  The 
card-tables  were  now  broken  up;  Vaudemont's  superi- 
ority in  shooting,  and  the  manner  in  Avhich  he  engrossed 
the  talk  of  the  sportsmen,  disjileased  him.  He  was 
bored :  he  wanted  to  be  off,  —  and  off  he  went.  Vaude- 
mont  felt  that  the  time  was  come  for  him  to  de^iart  too; 
but  Roliert  Beaufort  —  who  felt  in  his  society  the 
painful  fascination  of  the  bird  with  the  boa,  who  hated 
to  see  him  there,  and  dreaded  to  see  him  depart,  who 
liad  not  yet  extracted  all  the  confirmation  of  his  persua- 
sions that  he  required,  for  Vaudemont  easily  enough 
parried  the  artless  questions  of  Camilla  —  pressed  him 
to  stay  with  so  eager  an  hospitality,  and  made  Camilla 
herself  falter  out,  against  her  will  and  even  against  her 
remonstrances  (she  never  before  had  dared  to  remonstrate 
with  either  father  or  mother),  "  Could  not  you  stay  a  few 
days  longer?"  —  that  Vaudemont  was  too  contented  to 
yield    to  his  own  inclinations;  and  so,  for  some  little 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  243 

time  longer,  he  continued  to  move  before  the  eyes  of 
Mr.  Beaufort  —  stern,  sinister,  silent,  mysterious  — 
like  one  of  the  family  pictures  stepped  down  from  its 
frame.  Vaudemont  wrote,  however,  to  Fanny,  to  excuse 
his  delay;  and,  anxious  to  hear  from  her  as  to  her 
own  and  Simon's  health,  bade  her  direct  her  letter  to 
his  lodging  in  London  (of  which  he  gave  her  the 
address),  whence,  if  he  still  continued  to  defer  his 
departure,  it  would  be  forwarded  to  him.  He  did  not 
do  this,  however,  till  he  had  been  at  Beaufort  Court 
several  days  after  Lilburne's  departure,  and  till,  in  fact, 
two  days  before  the  eventful  one  which  closed  his  visit. 

The  party,  now  greatly  diminished,  were  at  breakfast, 
when  the  servant  entered,  as  usual,  with  the  letter-bag. 
Mr.  Beaufort,  who  was  always  important  and  pompous 
in  the  small  ceremonials  of  life,  unlocked  the  precious 
deposit  with  slow  dignity,  drew  forth  the  newspapers, 
which  he  threw  on  the  table,  and  which  the  gentlemen 
of  the  party  eagerly  seized;  then,  diving  out  one  by 
one,  jerked  first  a  letter  to  Camilla,  next  a  letter  to 
Vaudemont,  and,  thirdly,  seized  a  letter  for  himself. 

"  I  beg  that  there  may  be  no  ceremony,  Monsieur  de 
Vaudemont;  pray  excuse  me  and  follow  my  example. 
A  see  this  letter  is  from  my  son;  "  and  he  broke  the  seal. 

The  letter  ran  thus :  — 

My  dear  Father,  —  Almost  as  soon  as  you  receive  this  I 
shall  be  with  you.  Ill  as  I  am,  I  can  have  no  peace  till  I  see 
and  cousult  you.  The  most  startling,  the  most  painful,  in- 
telligence has  just  been  conveyed  to  me.  It  is  of  a  nature  not 
to  bear  any  but  personal  communication. 
Your  affectionate  son, 

Arthur  Beaufort. 
Boulogne. 

P.  S.  This  will  go  by  the  same  packet-boat  that  I  shall  take 
myself,  and  can  only  reach  you  a  few  hours  before  I  arrive. 


244  NIGHT   AND   MOliNlNG. 

Mr.  Beaufort's  trembling  hand  dropped  the  letter, — ■ 
he  grasped  the  elbow  of  the  chair  to  save  him  from 
falling.  It  was  clear!  —  the  same  visitor  who  had 
persecuted  himself  had  now  sought  his  son!  He  grew 
sick;  his  son  might  have  heard  the  witness,  might  be 
convinced.  His  son  himself  noiv  appeared  to  him  as  a 
foe,  —  for  the  father  dreaded  the  son's  honor!  He 
glanced  furtively  round  the  table  till  his  eye  rested  on 
Vaudemont,  and  his  terror  was  redoubled;  for  Vaude- 
mont's  face,  usually  so  calm,  was  animated  to  an  extraor- 
dinary degree,  as  he  now  lifted  it  from  the  letter  he  had 
just  read.  Their  eyes  met.  Eobert  Beaufort  looked  on 
him  as  a  prisoner  at  the  bar  looks  on  the  accusing 
counsel  when  he  first  commences  his  harangue. 

"  Mr.  Beaufort,"  said  the  guest,  "the  letter  you  have 
given  me  summons  me  to  London  on  important  business, 
and  immediately.  Suffer  me  to  send  for  horses  at  your 
earliest  convenience. " 

"  What 's  the  matter  ?  "  said  the  feeble  and  seldom- 
heard  voice  of  ;Mrs.  Beaufort,  —  "  what 's  the  matter, 
Robert  1  —  is  Arthur  coming  1  " 

"  He  comes  to-day,"  said  the  father,  with  a  deep  sigh; 
and  Vaudemont,  at  that  moment  rising  from  his  half- 
finished  breakfast,  with  a  bow  that  included  the  group, 
and  with  a  glance  that  lingered  on  Camilla,  as  she 
bent  over  her  own  unopened  letter  (a  letter  from 
Winandermere,  tlie  seal  of  which  she  dared  not  yet  to 
break) ,  quitted  the  room.  He  hastened  to  his  own 
chamber,  and  strode  to  and  fro  with  a  stately  step,  —  the 
step  of  the  master,  —  then,  taking  forth  the  letter,  he 
again  hurried  over  its  contents.     They  ran  thus :  — 

Dear  Sir,  —  At  last  the  missing  witness  has  applied  to  me. 
He  [troves  to  be,  a"*  j'ou  coiijecturefl,  the  same  person  who  had 
called  on  Mr.  Roger  Morton  ;  but  as  there  are  some  circum- 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  245 

stances  on  which  I  wish  to  take  your  instructions  without  a 
moment's  delay,  I  shall  leave  London  by  the  mail,  and  wait 

you  at  D (at  the  principal  inn),  which  is,  I  understand, 

twenty  miles,  on  the  hij^h-road,  from  P)eaut'ort  Court. 
1  have  the  honor  to  be,  sir,  yours,  etc. 

John  Barlow. 
Essex  Street. 

Vaudemont  was  yet  lost  in  the  emotions  that  this  letter 
aroused,  when  they  came  to  announce  that  his  chaise 
was  arrived.  As  he  went  down  the  stairs  he  met 
Camilla,  who  was  on  the  way  to  her  own  room. 

"Miss  Beaufort,"  said  he,  in  a  low  and  tremulous 
voice,  "in  wishing  you  farewell  I  may  not  now  say 
more.  I  leave  you,  and,  strange  to  say,  I  do  not  regret 
it;  for  I  go  upon  an  errand  that  may  entitle  me  to 
return  again,  and  speak  those  thoughts  which  are  upper- 
most in  my  soul,  even  at  this  moment." 

He  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips  as  he  spoke ;  and  at 
that  moment  Mr.  Beaufort  looked  from  the  door  of  his 
own  room  and  cried  "Camilla."  She  was  too  glad  to 
escape.  Philip  gazed  after  her  light  form  for  an  instant, 
and  then  hurried  down  the  stairs. 


2-iG  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Lonfjuem'Ile.  —  What !  are  you  married,  Beaufort  ? 
Beaufort.  —  Ay,  as  fast 
As  words  and  hands  and  hearts  and  priest 
Could  make  us. 

BiiALMOXT  AND  Fletcher:  Noble  Gentleman. 

In  the  parlor  of  the  inn  at  D sat  IMr.  John  Barlow. 

He  had  just  finished  his  hreakfast,  and  was  writing 
letters  and  looking  over  papers  connected  with  his 
various  husiness,  Avhen  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and 
a  gentleman  entered  ahruptly. 

"Mr.  Beaufort,"  said  the  lawyer,  rising,  —  "Mr. 
Philip  Beaufort,  for  such  I  now  feel  you  are  hy  right, 
—  though,"  he  added,  with  his  usual  formal  and  quiet 
smile,  "not  yet  hy  law;  and  much,  very  much,  remains 
to  he  done  to  make  the  law  and  the  right  the  same,  —  I 
congratulate  you  on  having  something  at  last  to  work 
on.  I  had  hegun  to  despair  of  finding  up  our  witness, 
after  a  mouth's  advertising;  and  had  commenced  other 
investigations,  of  which  I  will  speak  to  you  presently, 
when  yesterday,  on  my  return  to  town  from  an  errand 
on  your  husiness,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  a  visit  from 
William  Smith  himself.  i\Iy  dear  sir,  do  not  yet  he 
too  sanguine.  It  seems  that  this  poor  fellow,  having 
known  misfortune,  was  in  America  when  the  first 
fruitless  inquiries  were  made.  Long  after  this  he 
returned  to  the  colony,  and  there  met  with  a  hrother, 
who,  as  I  drew  from  him  was  a  convict.  He  helped  the 
brother    to    escape.       They    both    came    to    England. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  247 

William  learned  from  a  distant  relation,  who  lent  him 
some  little  money,  of  the  inquiry  that  had  been  set  on 
foot  for  him;  consulted  his  brother,  who  desired  him  to 
leave  all  to  his  management.  The  brother  afterwards 
assured  him  that  you  and  Mr.  Sidney  were  both  dead; 
and,  it  seems  (for  the  witness  is  simple  enough  to  allow 
me  to  extract  all),  this  same  brother  then  went  to  Mr. 
Beaufort  to  hold  out  the  threat  of  a  lawsuit,  and  to 
offer  the  sale  of  the  evidence,  yet  existing  —  " 

"And  Mr.  Beaufort?" 

"  I  am  happy  to  say ,  seems  to  have  spurned  the  offer. 
Meanwhile  William,  incredulous  of  his  brother's  report, 

proceeded  to  X ;  learned  nothing  from  ^It.  Morton  ; 

met  his  brother  again ;  and  the  brother  (confessing  that 
he  had  deceived  him  in  the  assertion  that  you  and  Mr. 
Sidney  were  dead)  told  him  that  he  had  known  you  in 
earlier  life,  and  set  out  to  Paris  to  seek  you  —  " 

"  Known  me  ?  —  to  Paris  ?  " 

"  More  of  this  presently.  William  returned  to  town, 
living  hardly  and  penuriously  on  the  little  his  brother 
bestowed  on  him,  too  melancholy  and  too  poor  for  the 
luxury  of  a  newspaper,  and  never  saw  our  advertisement, 
till,  as  luck  would  have  it,  his  money  was  out;  he  had 
heard  nothing  further  of  his  brother,  and  he  went  for 
new  assistance  to  the  same  relation  who  had  before 
aided  him.  This  relation,  to  his  surprise,  received  the 
poor  man  very  kindly,  lent  him  what  he  wanted,  and 
then  asked  him  if  he  had  not  seen  our  advertisement. 
The  newspaper  shown  him  contained  both  the  advertise- 
ments, —  that  relating  to  Mr.  Morton's  visitor,  that 
containing  his  own  name.  He  coupled  them  both 
together,  —  called  on  me  at  once.  I  was  from  town  on 
your  business.  He  returned  to  his  own  home ;  tlie 
next  morning  (yesterday  morning)  came  a  letter  from  his 


248  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

brother,  -wliicli  I  obtained  from  him  at  last,  and  with 
promises  that  no  harm  should  happen  to  the  writer  on 
account  of  it." 

Vaudemont  took  the  letter  and  read  as  follows :  — 

Dear  William,  —  No  go  about  the  youngster  I  went  after: 
all  researches  in  vane.    Paris  develish  expensive.    Never  mind, 

I  have  sene  the  other,  —  the  young  B ;  different  sort  of 

fellow  from  his  father :  very  ill,  frightened  out  of  his  wits,  — 
will  go  off  to  the  governor,  take  me  with  him  as  far  as  Bul- 
loHL'.  I  think  we  shall  settel  it  now.  Mind  as  I  saide  before, 
don't  put  your  foot  in  it.  I  send  you  a  Nap  in  the  Seele,  — 
all  I  can  spare. 

Yours, 

Jeremiah  Smith. 

Direct  to  me,  Monsieur  Smith,  —  always  a  safe  name,  — 
Ship  Inn,  BuUone. 

"Jeremiah  —  Smith,  Jeremiah!  " 

"Do  you  know  the  name,  then?"  said  Mr.  Barlow. 
"  Well ;  the  poor  man  owns  that  he  was  frightened  at  his 
brother;  that  he  wished  to  do  what  is  right;  that  he 
feared  his  brother  would  not  let  him ;  that  your  father 
was  very  kind  to  him,  —  and  so  he  came  off  at  once  to 
me ;  and  I  was  very  luckily  at  home  to  assure  him  that 
the  heir  was  alive  and  prepared  to  assert  his  rights, 
Now  then,  Mr.  Beaufort,  we  have  the  witness,  but  will 
that  suffice  us?  I  fear  not.  Will  the  jury  believe 
him  with  no  other  testimony  at  his  back?  Consider! 
When  he  was  gone  I  put  myself  in  communication  with 
some  officers  at  1)0W  Street  about  this  brotlier  of  his,  —  a 
most  notorious  character,  commonly  called  in  the  police 
slang  Dash  in  r/  Jerry — " 

"All!     Wed  1,  proceed!  " 

"  Your  one  witness,  then,  is  a  very  poor,  penniless 
man,  —  his  brother  a  rogue,  a  convict.     This  witness,  too, 


KIGIIT   AND    MORNING.  249 

is  the  most  timid,  fluctuating,  irresolute  fellow  I  ever 
saw;  I  should  tremble  for  his  testimony  against  a  sharp, 
bullying  lawyer.  And  that,  sir,  is  all  at  present  we 
have  to  look  to. " 

"  I  see,  I  see.  It  is  dangerous,  it  is  hazardous.  But 
truth  is  truth;  justice,  — justice!     I  will  run  the  risk." 

"  Pardon  me,  if  I  ask,  did  you  ever  know  this  brother? 
Were  you  ever  absolutely  acquainted  with  him,  —  in 
the  same  house  1  " 

"  Many  years  since  —  years  of  early  hardship  and  trial 
—  I  was  acquainted  with  him:  what  then?  " 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,"  and  the  lawyer  looked  grave. 
"  Do  you  not  see  that  if  this  witness  is  browbeat,  is 
disbelieved,  and  if  it  can  be  shown  that  you,  the  claim- 
ant, was  —  forgive  my  saying  it  —  intimate  with  a 
brother  of  such  a  character,  why  the  whole  thing  might 
be  made  to  look  like  perjury  and  conspiracy.  If  we 
stop  here  it  is  an  ugly  business!  " 

"  And  is  this  all  you  have  to  say  to  me  1  The  witness 
is  found,  the  only  surviving  witness,  —  the  only  proof  I 
ever  shall  or  ever  can  obtain,  and  you  seek  to  terrify 
me  —  me  too  —  from  using  the  means  for  redress  Provi- 
dence itself  vouchsafes  me.      Sir,  I  will  not  hear  you!  " 

"  Mr.  Beaufort,  you  are  impatient,  —  it  is  natural. 
But  if  we  go  to  law,  —  that  is,  should  I  have  anything 
to  do  with  it,  — wait,  wait  till  your  case  is  good.  And 
liear  me  yet.  This  is  not  the  only  proof,  —  this  is  not 
the  only  witness :  you  forget  that  there  was  an  examined 
copy  of  the  register;  we  may  yet  find  that  copy,  and  the 
person  who  copied  it  may  yet  be  alive  to  attest  it. 
Occupied  with  this  thought,  and  weary  of  waiting  the 
result  of  our  advertisement,  I  resolved  to  go  into  the 
neighborhood  of  Fernside;  luckily,  there  was  a  gentle- 
man's seat  to  be  sold  in  the  village.     I  made  the  survey 


250  NIGHT   AND   MOIINIXG. 

of  this  place  my  apparent  business.  After  going  over 
the  house,  I  appeared  anxious  to  see  liow  far  some  alter- 
ations could  he  made,  —  alterations  to  render  it  more 
like  Lord  Lilhurne's  villa.  This  led  me  to  request  a 
sight  of  that  villa,  — a  crown  to  the  housekeeper  got  me 
admittance.  The  housekeeper  had  lived  with  your 
father,  and  been  retained  by  his  lords;hip.  I  soon, 
therefore,  knew  which  were  the  rooms  the  late  ]\[r. 
Beaufort  had  principally  occupied;  shown  into  his 
study,  where  it  was  probable  he  would  keep  his  papers, 
I  inquired  if  it  were  the  same  furniture  (which  seemed 
likely  enough  from  its  age  and  fashion)  as  in  your 
father's  time.  It  was  so;  Lord  Lilburne  had  bought  the 
house  just  as  it  stood,  and,  save  a  few  additions  in  the 
drawing-room,  the  general  equipment  of  the  villa, 
remained  unaltered.  You  look  impatient !  —  I'm  coming 
to  the  point.  My  eye  fell  upon  an  old-fashioned 
bureau  —  " 

"  But  we  searched  every  drawer  in  that  bureau!  " 

"  Any  secret  drawers  1  " 

"  Secret  drawers !  No !  there  were  no  secret  drawers 
that  I  ever  heard  of !  " 

Mr.  Barlow  rubbed  his  hands  and  mused  a  moment. 

"I  was  struck  with  that  bureau,  for  my  father  had 
had  one  like  it.  It  is  not  English,  —  it  is  of  Dutch 
manufacture. " 

"Yes;  I  have  heard  that  my  father  bought  it  at  a 
sale,  three  or  four  years  after  his  marriage." 

"  I  learned  this  from  the  housekeeper,  who  was  flat- 
tered by  my  admiring  it,  I  could  not  find  out  from 
her  at  wliat  sale  it  had  been  purchased,  but  it  was  in 
the  neighborhood  she  was  sure.  I  had  now  a  date  to  go 
upon;  I  learned,  by  careless  inquiries,  what  sales 
near   Fernside   had  taken    place  in  a  certain  year.     A 


KIGIIT   AND   MORNING.  251 

gentleman  had  died  at  that  date,  whose  furniture  was 
sohl  by  auction.  With  great  difficulty,  I  found  that  his 
widow  was  still  alive,  living  far  up  the  country:  I  paid 
her  a  visit;  and,  not  to  fatigue  you  with  too  long  an 
account,  I  have  only  to  say,  that  she  not  only  assured 
me  that  she  perfectly  remembered  the  bureau,  but  that 
it  had  secret  drawers  and  wells,  very  curiously  con- 
trived; nay,  she  showed  me  the  very  catalogue  in  which 
the  said  receptacles  are  noticed  in  capitals,  to  arrest  the 
eye  of  the  bidder,  and  increase  the  price  of  the  bidding. 
That  your  father  should  never  have  revealed  where  he 
stowed  this  document  is  natural  enough,  during  the  life 
of  his  uncle:  his  own  life  was  not  spared  long  enough 
to  give  him  much  opportunity  to  explain  afterwards; 
but  I  feel  perfectly  persuaded  in  my  own  mind  that, 
unless  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  discovered  that  paper 
amongst  the  others  he  examined,  in  one  of  those  drawers 
■will  be  found  all  we  want  to  substantiate  your  claims. 
This  is  the  more  likely  from  your  father  never  men- 
tioning, even  to  your  mother  apparently,  the  secret 
receptacles  in  the  bureau.  Why  else  such  myster}^  1 
The  probability  is  that  he  received  the  document  either 
just  before  or  at  the  time  lie  purchased  the  bureau,  or 
that  he  bought  it  for  that  very  purpose;  and,  having 
once  deposited  the  paper  in  a  place  he  deemed  secure 
from  curiosity,  accident,  carelessness,  policy,  perhaps, 
rather  shame  itself  (pardon  me)  for  the  doubt  of  your 
mother's  discretion  that  his  secrecy  seemed  to  imply, 
kept  him  from  ever  alluding  to  the  circumstance,  even 
when  the  intimacy  of  after  years  made  him  more  assured 
of  your  mother's  self-sacrificing  devotion  to  his  inter- 
ests.     At  his  uncle's  death  he  thought  to  repair  all." 

"  And  how,  if  that  be  true,  —  if  that  Heaven  which 
has  delivered  me  hitherto  from  so  many  dangers  has,  iu 


252  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

the  very  secrecy  of  my  poor  father,  saved  my  birthright 
from  the  gripe  of  the  usurper,  — how,  I  say,  is  —  " 

"  The  bureau  to  pass  into  our  possession  ?  That  is 
the  difficulty.  But  we  must  contrive  it  someliow,  if 
all  else  fail  us;  meanwhile,  as  I  now  feel  sure  that  there 
has  been  a  copy  of  that  register  made,  I  wish  to  know 
whether  I  should  not  immediately  cross  the  country  into 
Wales,  and  see  if  I  can  find  any  person  in  the  neighbor- 
hood  of   A who  did  examine  the  copy  taken;  for, 

mark  you,  the  said  copy  is  only  of  importance  as  leading 
us  to  the  testimony  of  the  actual  witness  who  took  it." 

"  Sir,"  said  Vaudemont,  heartily  shaking  Mr.  Barlow 
by  the  hand,  "forgive  my  first  petulance.  I  see  in 
you  the  very  man  I  desired  and  wanted,  —  your  acuteness 
surprises  and  encourages  me.  Go  to  Wales,  and  God 
speed  you!  " 

"  Very  well !  in  five  minutes  I  shall  be  off.  Mean- 
while see  the  witness  yourself;  the  sight  of  his  bene- 
factor's son  Avill  do  more  to  keep  him  steady  than 
anything  else.  There  's  his  address,  and  take  care  not 
to  give  him  money.  And  now  I  will  order  my  chaise, 
—  the  matter  begins  to  look  worth  expense.  Oh,  I 
forgot  to  say  that  ]\Ionsieur  Liancourt  called  on  me 
yesterday  about  his  own  affairs.  He  wishes  much  to 
consult  you,  I  told  him  you  would  probably  be  this 
evening  in  town,  and  he  said  he  would  wait  you  at  your 
lodging." 

"  Yes;  I  will  lose  not  a  moment  in  going  to  London, 
and  visiting  our  witness.  And  he  saw  my  mother  at 
the  altar!  My  poor  mother,  —  ah,  how  could  my  father 
have  doubted  her!  "  and  as  he  spoke,  he  blushed  for  the 
first  time  with  shame  at  that  father's  memory.  He 
could  not  yet  conceive  tliat  one  so  frank,  one  usually  so 
bold  and  open,  could  for  years  have  preserved  from  the 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  253 

woman  who  had  sacrificed  all  to  him,  a  secret  to  her  so 
important!  That  was,  in  fact,  the  only  blot  on  his 
fatlier's  honor,  —  a  foul  and  a  grave  blot  it  was. 
Heavily  had  the  pimishment  fallen  on  those  whom  the 
father  loved  best!  Alas!  Philip  had  not  yet  learned 
what  terrible  corrupters  are  the  hope  and  the  fear  of 
immense  wealth,  —  ay,  even  to  men  reputed  the  most 
honorable,  if  they  have  been  reared  and  pampered  in  the 
belief  that  wealth  is  the  arch  blessing  of  life!  Rightly 
considered,  in  Philip  Beaufoit's  solitary  meanness  lay 
the  vast  moral  of  this  world's  darkest  truth! 

Mr.  Barlow  was  gone.  Philip  was  about  to  enter  his 
own  chaise,  when  a  dormeuse-and-four  drove  up  to  the 
inn-door  to  change  horses.  A  young  man  was  reclining, 
at  his  length,  in  the  carriage,  wrapped  in  cloaks,  and 
with  a  ghastly  paleness,  —  the  paleness  of  long  and 
deep  disease  upon  his  cheeks.  He  turned  his  dim  eye, 
with,  perhaps,  a  glance  of  the  sick  man's  envy,  on  that 
strong  and  athletic  form,  majestic  with  health  and 
vigor,  as  it  stood  beside  the  more  humble  vehicle. 
Philip  did  not,  however,  notice  the  new  arrival;  he 
sprang  into  the  chaise,  it  rattled  on:  and  thus,  uncon- 
sciously, Arthur  Beaufort  and  his  cousin  had  again  met. 
To  which  was  now  the  Isight,  —  to  which  the  Morning? 


254  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Bakam.  —  Let  my  men  guard  the  walls. 
S/jaiia.  —  And  mine  tlie  temple. 

The  Island  Princess. 

Whilk  thus  eventfully  the  days  and  the  weeks  liad 
passed  for  Philip,  no  less  eventfully,  so  far  as  tlie  inner 
life  is  concerned,  had  they  glided  away  for  Fanny.  She 
had  feasted  in  quiet  and  delighted  thought  on  the 
consciousness  that  she  was  improving;  that  she  Avas 
growing  worthier  of  him;  that  he  would  perceive  it  on 
his  return.  Her  manner  was  more  thoughtful,  more 
collected,  —  less  childish,  in  short,  tlian  it  had  been. 
And  yet,  with  all  the  stir  and  flutter  of  the  aroused 
intellect,  the  charm  of  her  strange  innocence  was  not 
scared  away.  She  rejoiced  in  the  ancient  liberty  she 
had  regained  of  going  out  and  coming  back  when  she 
pleased  ;  and,  as  the  weather  was  too  cold  ever  to  tempt 
Simon  from  his  fireside,  except,  perhaps,  for  half  an 
hour  in  the  forenoon,  so  the  hours  of  dusk,  when  he 
least  missed  her,  were  those  which  .she  chiefly  appro- 
priateil  for  stealing  away  to  the  good  schoolmistress,  and 
growing  wiser  and  wi.ser  every  day  in  the  ways  of  God 
and  tlie  learning  of  His  creatures.  The  schoolmistress 
was  not  a  brilliant  woman.  Nor  was  it  accomplishments 
of  which  Fanny  .stood  in  need,  so  much  as  the  opening 
of  her  thoughts  and  mind  by  profitable  books  and  rational 
conversation.  Beautiful  as  were  all  her  natural  feelings, 
the  schoolmistress  had  now  little  difficulty  in  educating 
feelings  up  to  the  dignity  of  principles. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  255 

At  last,  hitherto  patient  under  the  absence  of  one 
never  absent  from  her  heart,  Fanny  received  from  him 
the  letter  he  had  addressed  to  her  two  days  before  he 
quitted  Beaufort  Court :  another  letter,  —  a  second 
letter,  a  letter  to  excuse  himself  for  not  coming  before, 
a  letter  that  gave  her  an  address,  that  asked  for  a  reply. 
It  was  a  morning  of  unequalled  delight,  approaching  to 
transport.  And  then  the  excitement  of  answering  the 
letter, —  the  pride  of  showing  how  she  was  improved, 
wliat  an  excellent  hand  she  now  wrote!  She  shut 
herself  up  in  her  room;  she  did  not  go  out  that  day. 
She  placed  the  paper  before  her,  and,  to  her  astonishment, 
all  that  she  had  to  say  vanished  from  her  mind  at  once. 
How  was  she  even  to  begin  1  She  had  ahvays  hitherto 
called  him  "  brother."  Ever  since  her  conversation  with 
Sarah,  she  felt  that  she  could  not  call  him  that  name 
a"ain  for  the  world,  —  no,  never!  But  wlmt  should  she 
call  him,  what  could  she  call  him?  He  signed  himself 
"  riiilip."  She  knew  that  was  his  name.  She  thought 
it  a  musical  name  to  utter,  but  to  write  it!  No!  some 
instinct  she  could  not  account  for  seemed  to  whisper  that 
it  was  improper,  presumptuous,  to  call  him  "  Dear 
Philip. "  Had  Burns's  songs,  —  the  songs  that  unthink- 
ingly he  had  put  into  her  hand,  and  told  her  to  read, 
songs  that  comprise  the  most  beautiful  love-poems  in 
the  world,  —  had  they  helped  to  teach  her  some  of  the 
secrets  of  her  own  heart  1  And  had  timidity  come  with 
knowledge?  Who  shall  say,  who  guess,  what  passed 
within  her?  Xor  did  Fanny  herself,  perhaps,  know  her 
own  feelings:  but  write  the  words  "  Dear  Philip  "  she 
could  7iot.  And  the  whole  of  that  day,  though  she 
thought  of  nothing  else,  she  could  not  even  get  through 
the  first  line  to  her  satisfaction.  The  next  morning 
she  sat  down  again.     It  would  be  so  unkind  if  she  did 


256  NIGHT    AND   MOKNING. 

not  answer  immediately :  she  must  answer.  She  placed 
his  letter  before  her,  —  she  resolutely  began.  But  copy 
after  copy  was  made  and  torn.  And  Simon  wanted  her, 
and  Sarah  wanted  her,  —  and  there  were  bills  to  be  paid; 
and  dinner  was  over  before  her  task  was  really  begun. 
But  after  dinner  she  began  in  good  earnest. 

"  How  kind  in  you  to  write  to  me"  (the  difficulty  of 
any  name  Avas  dispensed  with  by  adopting  none),  "  and 
to  wish  to  know  about  my  dear  grandfather!  He  is 
much  the  same,  but  hardly  ever  walks  out  now,  and  I 
have  had  a  good  deal  of  time  to  myself.  I  tliink 
something  will  surprise  you,  and  make  you  smile,  as 
you  used  to  do  at  first,  Avhen  you  come  back.  You  must 
not  be  angry  with  me  that  I  have  gone  out  by  myself 
very  often, — every  day,  indeed.  I  have  been  so  safe. 
Xobody  has  ever  offered  to  be  rude  again  to  Fanny  "  (the 
word  "  Fanny  "  was  here  carefully  scratched  out  Avith 
a  penknife,  and  "me"  substituted).  "But  you  shall 
know  all  when  you  come.  And  are  you  sure  you  are 
Avell,  —  quite,  quite  well?  Do  you  never  have  the 
headaches  you  complained  of  sometimes?  Do  say  this! 
Do  you  walk  out,  —  every  day?  Is  there  any  pretty 
churchyard  near  you  now  ?     Whom  do  you  walk  with  ? 

"  I  have  been  so  happy  in  putting  the  flowers  on  the 
two  graves.  But  I  still  give  yours  the  prettiest,  though 
the  other  is  so  dear  to  me.  I  feel  sad  when  I  come  to 
the  last,  but  not  when  I  look  at  the  one  I  have  looked  at 
so  long.  Oh,  how  good  you  were!  But  you  don't  like 
me  to  thank  you." 

"This  is  very  stupid!"  cried  Fanny,  suddenly 
throwing  down  her  pen;  "and  I  don't  think  I  am 
improved  at  all;"  and  she  half  cried  with  vexation. 
Suddenly  a  bright  idea  crossed  her.  In  the  little  parlor 
where  the  schoolmistress  privately  received  her,  she  had 


NIGHT   AKD   MOIINLXG.  257 

seen  among  the  books,  and  thought  at  the  time  how 
useful  it  might  be  to  her  if  ever  she  had  to  write  to 
Philip,  a  little  volume  entitled  "  The  Complete  Letter- 
Writer."  She  knew  by  the  title-page  that  it  contained 
models  for  every  description  of  letter,  —  no  doubt  it 
would  contain  the  precise  thing  that  would  suit  the 
present  occasion.  She  started  up  at  the  notion.  She 
would  go,  —  she  could  be  back  to  finish  the  letter  before 
post-time.  She  put  on  her  bonnet,  left  the  letter,  in 
her  haste,  open  on  the  table,  and  just  looking  into 
the  parlor  in  her  way  to  the  street-door,  to  convince 
herself  that  Simon  was  asleep,  and  the  wire-guard  was 
on  the  fire,  she  hurried  to  the  kind  schoolmistress. 

One  of  the  fogs  that  in  autumn  gather  sullenly  over 
London  and  its  suburbs  covered  the  declining  day  with 
premature  dimness.  It  grew  darker  and  darker  as  she 
proceeded,  but  she  reached  the  hoi;se  in  safety.  She 
spent  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  timidly  consulting  her 
friend  about  all  kind  of  letters  except  the  identical  one 
that  she  intended  to  write,  and  having  had  it  strongly 
impressed  on  her  mind  that  if  the  letter  Vv^as  to  a  gentle- 
man at  all  genteel,  she  ought  to  begin  "  Dear  Sir,"  and 
end  with  "  I  have  the  honor  to  remain ; "  and  that  he 
would  be  everlastingly  oflfended  if  she  did  not  in  the 
address  affix  "  Esquire  "  to  his  name  (that  was  a  great 
discovery),  —  she  carried  oif  the  precious  volume,  and 
quitted  the  house.  There  was  a  wall  that,  bounding 
the  demesnes  of  the  school,  ran  for  some  short  distance 
into  the  main  street.  The  increasing  fog  here  faintly 
struggled  against  the  glimmer  of  a  single  lamp  at  some 
little  distance.  Just  in  this  spot  her  eye  was  caught  by 
a  dark  object  in  the  road,  which  she  could  scarcely 
perceive  to  be  a  carriage,  when  her  hand  was  seized,  and 
a  voice  said  in  her  ear, — 

VOL    11.  —  17 


258  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

"  Ah!  you  will  not  be  so  cruel  to  me,  I  hope,  as  you 
were  to  my  messenger!     1  have  come  myself  for  you." 

She  turned  in  great  alarm,  but  the  darkness  prevented 
her  recognizing  the  face  of  him  who  thus  accosted  her. 

"  Let  me  go !  "  she  cried,  —  "  let  me  go !  " 

"  Hush !  hush !  Xo ,  no !  Come  with  me.  You  shall 
have  a  house,  carriage,  servants!  You  shall  wear  silk 
gowns  and  jewels!     You  shall  be  a  great  lady !  " 

As  these  various  temptations  succeeded  in  ra])id  course 
each  new  struggle  of  Fanny,  a  voice  from  the  coach-box 
said  in  a  low  tone,  — 

"Take  care,  my  lord,  I  see  somebody  coming, — - 
perhaps  a  policeman  !  " 

Fanny  heard  the  caution,  and  screamed  for  rescue. 

"  Is  it  so  1  "  muttered  the  molester.  And  suddenly 
Panny  felt  her  voice  checked,  her  head  mantled,  her 
light  form  lifted  from  the  ground.  She  clung,  she 
struggled,  —  it  Avas  in  vain.  It  was  the  affair  of  a 
moment:  she  felt  herself  borne  into  the  carriage,  the 
door  closed;  the  stranger  was  by  her  side,  and  his  voice 
said,  — 

"  Drive  on,  Dykeman.     Fast!  fast!  " 

Two  or  three  minutes,  which  seemed  to  her  terror  as 
ages,  elapsed,  when  the  gag  and  tlie  mantle  were  gently 
removed,  and  the  same  voice  (she  still  could  not  see  her 
companion)  said  in  a  very  mild  tone,  — 

"Do  not  alarm  yourself;  there  is  no  cause,  —  indeed 
there  is  not.  I  would  not  have  adopted  this  plan  had 
there  been  any  other,  —  any  gentler  one.  But  I  could 
not  call  at  your  own  house ,  —  I  knew  no  other  where  to 
meet  you.  This  was  the  only  course  left  to  me, — 
indeed  it  was.  I  made  myself  acquainted  with  your 
movements.  Do  not  blame  me,  then,  for  prying  into 
your  footsteps.      I  watched  for  you  all  last  night,  —  you 


NIGHT    AXD    MORNING.  259 

did  not  come  out.  I  was  in  despair.  At  last  I  find 
3'ou.  Do  not  be  so  terrified  :  I  will  not  even  touch  you 
hand  if  you  do  not  wish  it. " 

As  he  spoke,  however,  he  attempted  to  touch  it,  and 
was  repulsed  with  an  energy  that  rather  disconcertetl 
him.  The  poor  girl  recoiled  from  him  into  the  farthest 
corner  of  that  prison  in  speechless  horror,  —  in  the 
darkest  confusion  of  ideas.  She  did  not  weep,  she  did 
not  sob;  but  her  trembling  seemed  to  shake  the  very 
carriage.  The  man  continued  to  address,  to  expostulate, 
to  pray,  to  soothe.  His  manner  was  respectful.  His 
protestations  that  he  would  not  harm  her  for  the  world 
were  endless. 

"Only  just  see  the  home  I  can  give  you;  for  two 
days,  —  for  one  day.  Only  just  hear  how  rich  I  can 
make  you  and  your  grandfather,  and  then,  if  you  wish 
to  leave  me,  you  shall." 

More,  much  more,  to  this  effect,  did  he  continue  to 
pour  forth,  without  extracting  any  sound  from  Fanny 
but  gasps  as  for  breath,  and  now  and  then  a  low 
murmur,  — 

"Let  me  go,  let  me  go!  My  grandfather,  my  blind 
grandfather !  " 

And  finally  tears  came  to  her  relief,  and  she  sobbed 
with  a  passion  that  alarmed,  and  perhaps  even  touched, 
her  companion,  cynical  and  icy  as  he  was.  Meanwhile 
the  carriage  seemed  to  fly.  Fast  as  two  horses,  thor- 
oughbred, and  almost  at  full  speed,  could  go,  they  were 
whirled  along,  till  about  an  hour,  or  even  less,  from  the 
time  in  which  she  had  been  thus  captured,  the  carriage 
stopped. 

"Are  we  here  already?"  said  the  man,  putting  his 
head  out  of  the  window.  "  Do  then  as  I  told  you. 
Not  to  the  front  door;  to  my  study." 


260  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

In  two  minutes  more  the  carriage  halted  again  before 
a  building,  which  looked  white  and  ghostlike  througli 
the  mist.  The  driver  dismounted,  opened  with  a  latch- 
key a  window-door,  entered  for  a  moment  to  light  the 
candles  in  a  solitary  room  from  a  fire  that  blazed  on  the 
hearth,  reappeared,  and  opened  the  carriage-door.  It 
was  witli  a  difficulty  for  which  they  were  scarcely 
prepared  that  they  were  enabled  to  get  "Fanny  from  the 
carriage.  No  soft  words,  no  whispered  prayers,  could 
draw  her  forth;  and  it  was  with  no  trifling  address,  for 
her  companion  sought  to  be  as  gentle  as  the  force 
necessary  to  employ  would  allow,  that  he  disengaged  her 
hands  from  the  window-frame,  the  lining,  the  cushions, 
to  which  they  clung  ;  and  at  last  bore  her  into  the  house. 
The  driver  closed  the  window  again  as  he  retreated,  and 
they  were  alone.  Panny  then  cast  a  wild,  scarce 
conscious  glance  over  the  apartment.  It  was  small  and 
simply  furnished.  Opposite  to  her  was  an  old-fashioned 
bureau, — one  of  those  quaint,  elaborate  monuments  of 
Dutch  ingenuity  which,  during  the  present  century, 
the  audacious  spirit  of  curiosity-venders  has  transplanted 
from  their  native  receptacles,  to  contrast,  with  grotesque 
strangeness,  the  neat  handiwork  of  Gillovv  and  Seddon. 
It  had  a  physiognomy  and  character  of  its  own,  —  this 
fantastic  foreigner,  —  inlaid  witli  mosaics,  depicting 
landscapes  and  animals;  graceless  in  form  and  fashion, 
but  still  picturesque,  and  winning  admiration,  when 
more  closely  observed,  from  the  patient  defiance  of  all 
rules  of  taste  which  had  formed  its  cumbrous  parts  into 
one  profusely  ornamented  and  eccentric  wliole.  It  was 
the  more  noticeable  from  its  total  want  of  harmony  with 
the  other  appurtenances  of  the  room,  which  bespoke  the 
tastes  of  the  plain  English  squire.  Prints  of  horses  and 
hunts,    fishing-rods   and   fowling-pieces,   carefully   sus- 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  .    261 

pendod,  decorated  the  walls.  Not,  however,  on  this 
iintal)le  stranger  from  the  sluggish  land,  rested  the  eye 
of  Fanny.  That ^  in  her  hurried  survey,  was  arrested 
only  by  a  portrait  placed  over  the  bureau,  —  the  portrait 
of  a  female  in  the  bloom  of  life;  a  face  so  fair,  a  brow 
so  candid,  an  eye  so  pure,  a  lip  so  rich  in  j^outh  and  joy, 
that  as  her  look  lingered  on  the  features,  Fanny  felt 
comforted,  felt  as  if  some  living  protectress  were  there. 
The  fire  burned  bright  and  merrily;  a  table,  spread  as 
for  dinner,  was  drawn  near  it.  To  any  other  eye  but 
Fanny's  the  place  would  have  seemed  a  picture  of 
English  comfort.  At  last  her  looks  rested  on  her 
companion.  He  had  throAvn  himself,  with  a  long  sigh, 
partly  of  fatigue,  partly  of  satisfaction,  on  one  of  the 
chairs,  and  was  contemplating  her  as  she  thus  stood  and 
gazed,  with  an  expression  of  mingled  curiosity  and 
admiration:  she  recognized  at  once  her  first,  her  only 
persecutor.  She  recoiled,  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands.     The  man  approached  her :  — 

"  Do  not  hate  me,  Fanny,  —  do  not  turn  away. 
Believe  me,  though  I  have  acted  thus  violently,  here 
qU  violence  Avill  cease.  I  love  you,  but  I  will  not  be 
satisfied  till  you  love  me  in  return.  I  am  not  young,  and 
I  am  not  handsome ;  but  I  am  rich  and  great,  and  I  can 
make  those  whom  I  love  happy,  —  so  happy,  Fanny!  " 

But  Fanny  had  turned  away,  and  was  now  busily 
employed  in  trying  to  re-open  the  door  at  which  she  had 
entered.  Failing  in  this,  she  suddenly  darted  away, 
opened  the  inner  door,  and  rushed  into  the  passage  with 
a  loud  cry.  Her  persecutor  stifled  an  oath,  and  sprang 
after  and  arrested  her.  He  now  spoke  sternly,  and  with 
a  smile  and  a  frown  at  once :  — • 

"This  is  folly;  come  back,  or  you  will  repent  it!  I 
have  promised  you,  as  a  gentleman,  — as  a  nobleman,  if 


262  KIGHT   AXD   MORNIXG. 

you  know  what  that  is,  —  to  respect  3-011.  But  neither 
will  I  myself  be  trifled  with  nor  insulted.  There  must 
be  no  screams !  " 

His  look  and  his  voice  awed  Eanny  in  spite  of  her 
bewilderment  and  her  loathing,  and  she  suffered  herself 
passively  to  be  drawn  into  the  room.  He  closed  and 
bolted  the  door.  She  threw  herself  on  the  ground  in 
one  corner,  and  moaned  low  but  piteously.  He  looked 
at  her  musingly  for  some  moments,  as  he  stood  by  the 
fire,  and  at  last  went  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  called 
"  Harriet"  in  a  low  voice.  Presently  a  young  woman, 
of  about  thirty,  appeared,  neatly  but  plainly  dressed, 
and  of  a  countenance  that,  if  not  very  winning,  might 
certainly  be  called  very  handsome.  He  drew  her  aside 
for  a  few  moments,  and  a  whispered  conference  "was 
exchanged.      He  then  walked  gravely  up  to  Fanny  :  — 

"My  young  friend,"  said  he,  "I  see  ray  presence  is 
too  much  for  you  this  evening.  This  young  woman  will 
attend  you,  —  will  get  you  all  you  want.  She  can  tell 
you,  too,  that  I  am  not  the  terrible  sort  of  person  you 
seem  to  suppose.  I  shall  see  you  to-morrow."  So 
saying,  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  out. 

Fanny  felt  something  like  liberty,  something  like  joy, 
again.  She  rose,  and  looked  so  pleadingly,  so  earnestly, 
so  intently  into  the  woman's  face,  that  Harriet  turned 
away  her  bold  eyes  abashed;  and  at  this  moment 
Dykeman   himself   looked    into   the    room. 

"  You  are  to  bring  us  in  dinner  here  yourself,  uncle; 
and  then  go  to  my  lord  in  the  drawing-room. " 

Dykeman  looked  pleased,  and  vanished.  Then 
Harriet  came  up  and  took  Fanny's  hand,  and  said 
kindly, — 

"  Don't  be  frightened.  I  assure  you  half  the  girls  in 
London  would  give  I  don't  know  what  to  be  in  your 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  263 

place.  My  lord  never  will  force  you  to  do  anytliing 
you  don't  like,  —  it  's  not  his  way  ;  and  he  's  the  kindest 
and  best  man,  — and  so  rich;  he  does  not  know  what  to 
do  with  his  money !  " 

To  all  this  Fanny  made  but  one  answer,  — she  threw 
hersnlf  suddenly  upon  the  woman's  breast,  and  sobbed 
out,  — 

"  My  grandfather  is  blind ,  he  cannot  do  without  me : 
he  will  die  —  die.  Have  you  nobody  you  love  too? 
Let  me  go,  let  me  out!  What  can  they  want  with  me? 
—  T  nevpr  did  harm  to  any  one." 

"And  no  one  will  harm  yo}i;  T  swear  it  I"  said 
Harriet,  earnestly.  "  I  see  you  don't  know  my  lord. 
But  here  's  the  dinner  ;  come  and  take  a  bit  of  something, 
and  a  glass  of  wine." 

Fanny  could  not  touch  anything  except  a  glass  of 
Avater,  and  that  nearly  choked  her.  But  at  last,  as  she 
recovered  her  senses,  the  absence  of  her  tormentor,  the 
presence  of  a  woman,  the  solemn  assurances  of  Harriet 
that,  if  she  did  not  like  to  stay  there,  after  a  day  or  two 
she  should  go  back,  —  tranquillized  her  in  some  measure. 
She  did  not  heed  the  artful  and  lengthened  eulogiums 
that  the  she-tempter  then  proceeded  to  pour  forth  upon 
the  virtues  and  the  love  and  the  generosity  and,  above 
all,  the  money  of  my  lord.  She  only  kept  repeating 
to  herself,  "I  shall  go  back  in  a  day  or  two."  At 
length,  Harriet,  having  ate  and  drank  as  much  as  she 
could  by  her  single  self,  and  growing  wearied  with 
elforts  from  wdiich  so  little  resulted,  proposed  to  Fanny 
to  retire  to  rest.  She  opened  a  door  to  the  right  of  the 
fireplace,  and  lighted  her  up  a  winding  staircase  to  a 
pretty  and  comfortable  chamber,  where  she  offered  to 
help  her  to  undress.  Fanny's  complete  innocence,  and 
her  utter  ignorance  of  the  precise  nature  of  the  danger 


264  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

that  awaited  her,  though  she  fancied  it  must  be  very 
great  and  very  awful ,  prevented  her  quite  comprehending 
all  that  Harriet  meant  to  convey  by  her  solemn  assur- 
ances that  she  should  not  be  disturbed.  But  she 
luulerstood,  at  least,  that  she  was  not  to  see  her  hateful 
jailer  till  the  next  morning;  and  when  Harriet,  wishing 
her  "  good-night,"  showed  her  a  bolt  to  her  door,  she 
was  less  terrified  at  the  thought  of  being  alone  in  that 
strange  place.  She  listened  till  Harriet's  footsteps  had 
died  away,  and  then,  Avith  a  beating  heart,  tried  to  open 
the  door;  it  was  locked  from  without.  She  sighed 
heavily.  The  window  ]  —  alas!  when  she  had  removed 
the  shutter,  there  was  another  one  barred  from  Avithout, 
which  precluded  all  hope  there ;  she  had  no  help  for  it 
but  to  bolt  her  door,  stand  forlorn  and  amazed  at  her  own 
condition,  and,  at  last,  falling  on  her  knees,  to  pray,  in 
her  own  simple  fashion,  which,  since  her  recent  visits  to 
the  schoolmistress,  had  become  more  intelligent  and 
earnest,  to  Him  from  whom  no  bolts  and  no  bars  can 
exclude  the  voice  of  the  human  heart. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  265 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

In  te  omnis  domus  inclinata  recumbit.^  —  Virgil. 

Lord  Lilburxr,  seated  before  a  tray  in  tlie  drawing- 
room,  was  finishing  his  own  solitary  dinner,  and  Dyke- 
man  was  standing  close  behind  him,  nervous  and 
agitated.  The  confidence  of  many  years  between  the 
master  and  the  servant  —  the  peculiar  mind  of  Lilburne, 
which  excluded  him  from  all  friendship  with  his  own 
equals  —  had  established  between  the  two  the  kind  of 
intimacy  so  common  with  the  noble  and  the  valet  of  the 
old  French  regime;  and  indeed  in  much,  Lilburne  more 
resembled  the  men  of  that  day  and  land,  than  he  did 
the  nobler  and  statelier  being  which  belongs  to  our  own. 
But  to  the  end  of  time,  whatever  is  at  once  vicious, 
polished,  and  intellectual,  will  have  a  common  likeness. 

"But,  my  lord,"  said  Dykeman,  "just  reflect.  This 
girl  is  so  well  known  in  the  place ;  she  will  be  sure  to 
be  missed;  and  if  any  violence  is  done  to  her,  it's  a 
capital  crime,  my  lord,  — a  capital  crime.  I  know  they 
can't  hang  a  great  lord  like  you,  but  all  concerned  in  it 
may  —  " 

Lord  Lilburne  interrupted  the  speaker  by,  "  Give  me 
some  wine,  and  hold  your  tongue!"  Then,  Avhen  he 
had  emptied  his  glass,  he  drew  himself  nearer  to  the 
fire,  warmed  his  hands,  mused  a  moment,  and  turned 
round  to  his  confidant :  — 

"  Dykeman,"  said  he,  "though  you're  an  ass  and  a 
coward,  and  you  don't  deserve  that  I  should  be  so 
1  On  thee  the  whole  house  rest  coufidingly. 


266  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

condescending,  I  will  relieve  your  fears  at  once.  I 
know  the  law  better  than  you  can,  for  my  whole  life  has 
been  spent  in  doing  exactly  as  I  please,  without  ever 
putting  myself  in  the  power  of  LAW,  which  interferes 
with  the  pleasures  of  other  men.  You  are  right  in 
saying  violence  would  be  a  capital  crime.  Kow  the 
difierence  between  vice  and  crime  is  this:  vice  is  what 
parsons  write  sermons  against ;  crime  is  what  we  make 
laws  against.     I  never  committed  a  crime  in  all  my  life, 

—  at  an  age  between  fifty  and  sixty  I  am  not  going  to 
begin.  Vices  are  safe  things:  I  may  have  my  vices 
like  other  men ;  but  crimes  are  dangerous  things,  — 
illegal  things,  things  to  be  carefully  avoided.  Look 
you  "  (and  here  tlie  speaker,  fixing  his  puzzled  listener 
with  his  eye,  broke  into  a  grin  of  sublime  mockery),  "  let 
me  suppose  you  to  be  the  World,  —  that  cringing  valet 
of  valets,  the  World!  I  should  say  to  you  this:  '  My 
dear  World,  you  and  I  understand  each  other  well,  — 
we  are  made  for  each  otlier :  I  never  come  in  your  way , 
nor  you  in  mine.  If  I  get  drunk  every  day  in  my  own 
room,  that 's  vice,  you  can't  touch  me;  if  I  take  an  extra 
glass  for  the  first  time  in  ni}''  life,  and  knock  down  the 
watchman,  that 's  a  crime  which,  if  I  am  rich,  costs  me 
one  pound,  —  perhaps  five  pounds,  if  I  am  poor,  sends 
me  to  the  treadmill.  If  I  break  the  hearts  of  five 
hundred  old  fathers,  by  buying  with  gold  or  flattery  the 
embraces  of  five  hundred  young  daughters,  that 's  vice, 

—  your  servant,  Mr.  World!  If  one  termagant  wench 
scratches  my  face,  makes  a  noise,  and  goes  brazen-faced 
to  the  Old  Bailey  to  swear  to  her  shame,  why  that 's 
crime,  and  my  friend,  Mr.  World,  pulls  a  hemp-rope 
out  of  his  pocket.'  Now,  do  you  understand'/  Yes,  I 
repeat,"  he  added  with  a  change  of  voice,  "  I  never 
committed  a  crime  in  my  life.     I  have  never  even  been 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  2G7 

accused  of  one,  —  never  liad  an  action  of  crim.  co7i.,  of 
seduction  against  me.  1  know  how  to  manage  such 
matters  better.  I  was  forced  to  carry  off  this  girl, 
because  I  had  no  other  means  of  courting  her.  To  court 
her  is  all  I  mean  to  do  now.  I  am  perfectly  aware  that 
an  action  for  violence,  as  you  call  it,  would  be  the  more 
disagreeable,  because  of  the  very  weakness  of  intellect 
which  the  girl  is  said  to  possess,  and  of  which  report  I 
dun't  believe  a  word._  1  shall,  most  certainly,  avoid 
every  the  remotest  appearance  that  could  be  so  con- 
strued. It  is  for  that  rea.son  that  no  one  in  the  house 
shall  attend  the  girl  except  yourself  and  your  niece. 
Your  niece  I  can  depend  on,  I  kuowj  I  have  been 
kind  to  her;  I  have  got  her  a  good  husband.  T  shall 
get  her  husband  a  good  place ;  I  shall  be  godfather  to 
her  first  child.  To  be  sure,  the  other  servants  will 
know  there  's  a  lady  in  the  house,  but  to  that  they  are 
accustomed ;  I  don't  set  up  for  a  Joseph.  They  need 
know  no  more,  unless  you  choose  to  blab  it  out.  AVell, 
then,  supposing  that  at  the  end  of  a  few  days,  more  or 
less,  without  any  rudeness  on  my  part,  a  young  woman, 
after  seeing  a  few  jewels  and  fine  dresses  and  a  pretty 
house,  and  being  made  very  comfortable,  and  being 
convinced  that  her  grandfather  shall  be  taken  care  of 
without  her  slaving  herself  to  death,  chooses  of  her 
own  accord  to  live  with  me,  where  's  the  crime,  and  who 
can  interfere  with  it "?  " 

"Certainly,  my  lord,  that  alters  the  case,"  said 
Dykeman,  considerably  relieved.  "But  still,"  he 
added  anxiously ,"  if  the  inquiry  is  made,  —  if  before 
all  this  is  settled,  it  is  found  out  where  she  is?  " 

"Why,  tlien,  no  harm  will  be  done, — no  violence 
will  be  committed.  Her  grandfather  —  drivelling,  and 
a  miser,  you  say  —  can  be  appeased  by  a  little  money, 


268  NIGHT    AND    MOKNING. 

and  it  will  be  nobody's  business,  and  no  case  can  be 
made  of  it.  Tush,  man!  I  always  look  before  I  leap. 
People  in  this  world  are  nut  so  charitable  as  you 
suppose,  Wliat  more  natural  than  that  a  poor  and 
pretty  girl  —  not  as  wise  as  Queen  Elizabeth  —  should 
be  tempted  to  pay  a  visit  to  a  rich  lover !  All  they  can 
say  of  the  lover  is,  that  he  is  a  very  gay  man  or  a  very 
bad  man,  and  that 's  saying  nothing  new  of  me.  But  I 
don't  think  it  will  be  found  out.  Just  get  me  that  stool ; 
this  has  iM^en  a  very  troublesome  piece  of  business,  — 
rather  tired  me.  I  am  not  so  young  as  I  was.  Yes, 
Dykeraan,  something  which  that  Frenchman  Vaudemont, 
or  Vautr-rien,  or  whatever  his  name  is,  said  to  me  once 
has  a  certain  degree  of  truth.  I  felt  it  in  the  last  fit 
of  tlie  gout,  when  my  pretty  niece  was  smoothing  my 
pillows.  A  nurse,  ao  we  grow  older,  may  be  of  use  to 
one.  I  wish  to  make  this  girl  like  me,  or  be  grateful 
to  me.  I  am  meditating  a  longer  and  more  serious 
attachment  tlian  usual,  — a  companion!  " 

"A  companion,  my  lord,  in  that  poor  creature!  —  so 
ignorant,  so  uneducated !  " 

"  So  much  the  better.  This  world  palls  upon  me," 
said  Lilburne,  almost  gloomily.  "  I  grow  sick  of  the 
miserable  quackeries,  —  of  the  piteous  conceits  that  men, 
women,  and  children,  call  '  knowledge.'  I  wish  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  nature  before  I  die.  This  creature 
interests  me,  and  that  is  something  in  this  life.  Clear 
those  things  away,  and  leave  me. 

"Ay!  "  muttered  Lilburne,  as  he  bent  over  the  lire 
alone,  "  when  1  first  heard  that  that  girl  was  the  grand- 
daughter of  Simon  Gawtrey,  and,  therefore,  the  child  of 
the  man  whom  I  am  to  thank  that  I  am  a  cripple,  I  felt 
as  if  love  to  her  were  a  part  of  that  hate  which  I  owe 
ii,  him,  —  a  .segment  in  the  circle  of  my  vengeance.     But 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  269 

now,  poor  cliild!  I  forgot  all  this.  I  feel  for  her,  not 
passion,  but  what  I  never  felt  before,  affection.  I  feel 
that  if  I  had  such  a  child,  I  could  understand  what  men 
mean  when  they  talk  of  the  tenderness  of  a  father.  I 
have  not  one  impure  thought  for  that  girl, — not  one. 
But  I  would  give  thousands  if  she  could  love  me. 
Strange!    strange!     in    all    this    I    do    not    recognize 

myself!" 

Lord  Lilburne  retired  to  rest  betimes  that  night;  he 
slept  sound ;  rose  refreshed  at  an  earlier  hour  than  usual ; 
and  what  he  considered  a  fit  of  vapors  of  the  previous 
night  was  passed  away.  He  looked  with  eagerness  to 
an  interview  with  Fanny.  Proud  of  his  intellect, 
pleased  in  any  of  those  sinister  exercises  of  it,  which 
the  code  and  habits  of  his  life  so  long  permitted  to  him, 
he  regarded  the  conquest  of  his  fair  adversary  with  the 
interest  of  a  scientific  game.  Harriet  went  to  Fanny's 
room  to  prepare  her  to  receive  her  host;  and  Lord 
Lilburne  now  resolved  to  make  his  own  visit  the  less 
unwelcome,  by  reserving  for  his  especial  gift  some 
showy,  if  not  valuable,  trinkets,  which  for  similar 
puilioses  never  failed  the  depositories  of  the  villa  he 
had  purchased  for  his  pleasures.  He  recollected  that 
these  gewgaws  were  placed  in  the  bureau  in  the  study ; 
in  which,  as  having  a  lock  of  foreign  and  intricate 
workmanship,  he  usually  kept  whatever  might  tempt 
cupidity  in  those  frequent  absences  when  the  house 
was  left  guarded  but  by  two  women-servants.  Finding 
that  Fanny  had  not  yet  quitted  her  own  chamber,  while 
Harriet  went  up  to  attend  and  reason  with  her,  he  him- 
self limped  into  the  study  below,  unlocked  the  bureau, 
and  was  searching  in  the  drawers,  when  he  heard  the 
voice  of  Fanny  above ,  raised  a  little  as  if  in  remonstrance 
or  entreaty;  and  he  paused  to    listen.     He  could  not, 


270  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

however,  distinguish  what  was  said;  and  in  the  mean- 
while, without  attending  much  to  what  he  was  about, 
his  hands  were  still  employed  in  opening  and  shutting 
the  drawers,  passing  through  the  pigeon-lioles,  and 
feeling  for  a  topaz  brooch,  which  he  thought  could  not 
fail  of  pleasing  the  unsophisticated  eyes  of  Fanny. 
One  of  the  recesses  was  deeper  tlian  the  rest ;  he  fancied 
the  brooch  was  there;  he  stretched  his  hand  into  tlie 
recess;  and,  as  tlie  room  was  partially  darkened  by  the 
lower  shutters  from  without,  which  were  still  closed  to 
prevent  any  attempted  escape  of  his  captive,  he  had  only 
the  sense  of  touch  to  depend  on;  not  finding  the  brooch, 
he  stretched  on  till  he  came  to  the  extremity  of  the 
recess,  and  was  suddenly  sensible  of  a  sharp  pain ;  the 
flesh  seemed  caught  as  in  a  trap ;  lie  drew  back  his  finger 
with  sudden  force  and  a  half-suppressed  exclamation,  and 
he  perceived  the  bottom  or  floor  of  the  pigeon-hole 
recede,  as  if  sliding  back.  His  curiosity  was  aroused; 
he  again  felt  warily  and  cautiously,  and  discovered  a 
very  sliglit  inequality  and  roughness  at  the  extremity  of 
the  recess.  He  was  aware  instantly  tliat  there  was 
some  secret  spring;  he  pressed  with  some  force  on  the 
spot,  and  he  felt  the  board  give  way ;  he  pushed  it  back 
towards  him,  and  it  slid  suddenly  with  a  whirring 
noise,  and  left  a  cavity  below  exposed  to  his  sight.  He 
peered  in,  and  drew  forth  a  paper;  he  opened  it  at  first 
carelessly,  for  he  was  still  trying  to  listen  to  Fanny. 
His  eye  ran  rapidly  over  a  few  preliminary  lines  till  it 
rested  on  what  follows:  — 

Marriage.     The  year  18 — . 
No.  83,  page  21. 

Pliilip  Beaufort,  of  this  parish   of  A ,  and   Catherine 

Morton,  of  the  parish  of  St.  Botolph,  Aldgate,  London,  were 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  271 

married  in  tliia  chuich  liy  banns,  this  12tli  day  of  November, 

in  the  year  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and ,^  by  nie, 

Caleb  Price,  Vicar. 

This  marriage  was  solemnized  between  us, 

Philip  Beaufort. 
Catherune  xMorton. 
In  the  presence  of 

David  Apreeck. 
William  Smith. 

The  above  is  a  true  copy,  taken  from  the  registry  of  mar- 
riages in  A pari.sh,  this  19th  day  of  March,  18 — ,  by  me, 

Morgan  Jones,  Curate  of  C . 

Lord  Lilburne  again  cast  his  eye  over  the  lines  pre- 
fixed to  this  startling  document,  which,  being  those 
written  at  Caleb's  desire  by  Mr.  Jones  to  Philip  Beau- 
fort, we  need  not  here  transcribe  to  the  reader.^  At  that 
instant,  Harriet  descended  the  stairs,  and  came  into 
the  room;  she  crept  up  on  tiptoe  to  Lilburne,  and 
whispered,  — 

"  She  is  coming  down,  I  think ;  she  does  not  know 
you  are  here." 

"  Very  well,  —  go!  "  said  Lord  Lilburne.  And  scarce 
liad  Harriet  left  the  room,  when  a  carriage  drove 
furiously  to  the  door,  and  Robert  Beaufort  rushed  into 
the  study. 

^  This  is  according  to  the  form  customary  at  the  date  at  which 
the  copy  was  made.     There  has  since  been  au  alteration. 
^  See  vol.  i.,  page  18. 


272  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


Goue,  and  none  know  it. 


Huw  now  ?  —  What  news,  wliat  hopes  and  steps  discovered  ' 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher:  The  Pilgrim. 

"When  Philip  arrived  at  his  lodgings  in  town  it  was 
very  late,  but  he  still  found  Ijiancourt  waiting  the 
chance  of  his  arrival.  The  Frenchman  was  full  of  his 
own  schemes  and  projects.  He  was  a  man  of  high 
repute  and  connections;  negotiations  for  his  recall  to 
Paris  had  been  entered  into ;  he  was  divided  between  a 
Quixotic  loyalty  and  a  rational  prudence;  he  brought 
his  doubts  to  Vaudemont.  Occupied  as  he  was  with 
thoughts  of  so  important  and  personal  a  nature,  Philip 
could  yet  listen  patiently  to  his  friend,  and  weigh  with 
him  the  2>i'os  and  cons.  And,  after  having  mutually 
agreed  that  loyalty  and  prudence  would  both  be  best 
consulted  by  waiting  a  little,  to  see  if  the  nation,  as 
the  Carlists  yet  fondly  trusted,  would  soon,  after  its 
first  fever,  offer  once  more  the  throne  and  the  purple  to 
the  descendant  of  St.  Louis,  Liancourt,  as  he  lighted 
his  cigar  to  walk  home,  said,  "  A  thousand  thanks  to 
you,  my  dear  friend:  and  how  have  you  enjoyed  your- 
self in  your  visit?  I  am  not  surprised  or  jealous  that 
Lilburne  did  not  invite  me,  as  I  do  not  play  at  cards, 
and  as  I  have  said  some  sharp  things  to  hiin." 

"  I  fancy  I  shall  have  the  same  disqualifications  for 
another  invitation,"  said  Vaudemont,  with  a  severe 
smile.     "  I  may  have  much  to  disclose  to  you  in  a  few 


NIGHT    AND   MORNING.  273 

days.  At  present  my  news  is  still  unripe.  And  have 
you  seen  anything  of  Lilburnel  He  left  us  some  days 
since.      Is  he  in  London?  " 

"  Yes;  I  was  riding  with  our  friend  Henri,  wlio 
Avished  to  try  a  new  horse  otf  the  stones,  a  little  way 

into  the  country  yesterday.       We  went    througli    

and    H .       Pretty    places,    those.       Do    you    know 

them  1  " 

"Yes;  I  know  H ." 

"  And  just  at  dusk,  as  we  were  spurring  back  to  town, 
whom  should  I  see  walking  on  the  path  of  the  highroad, 
but  Lord  Lilburne  himself!  I  could  hardly  believe  my 
eyes.  I  stopped,  and,  after  asking  him  about  you,  I 
could  not  help  expressing  my  surprise  to  see  him  on 
foot  at  such  a  place.  You  know  the  man's  sneer.  '  A 
Frenchman  so  gallant  as  Monsieur  de  Liancourt,'  said 
he,  '  need  not  be  surprised  at  much  greater  miracles; 
the  iron  moves  to  the  magnet:  T  have  a  little  adventure 
here.  Pardon  me,  if  I  ask  you  to  ride  on.'  Of  course, 
I  wished  him  good-day;  and  a  little  farther  up  the 
road  1  saw  a  dark,  plain  chariot,  no  coronet,  no  arms, 
no  footman,  —  only  the  man  on  the  box,  but  the  beauty 
of  the  horses  assured  me  it  must  belong  to  Lilburne. 
Can  you  conceive  such  abs\:rdity  in  a  man  of  that  age, 
—  and  a  very  clever  fellow  too?  Yet,  how  is  it  that 
one  does  not  ridicule  it  in  Lilburne,  as  one  would  in 
another  man  between  fifty  and  sixty  ?  " 

"  Because  one  does  not  ridicule  —  one  loathes  —  him. " 

"  No ;  that 's  not  it.  The  fact  is,  that  one  can't  fancy 
Lilburne  old.  His  manner  is  young,  —  his  eye  is 
3'oung.  I  never  saw  any  one  with  so  much  vitality. 
'The  bad  heart  and  the  good  digestion,' — the  twin 
secrets  for  wearing  well ,  eh  ?  " 

"  Where  did  you  meet  him  :  not  near  H ?  " 

VOL.  II.  —  18 


274  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

"Yes;  close  by.  Wliy?  Have  yon  any  adventure 
there  too?  Nay,  forgive  me;  it  was  but  a  jest. 
Good-night!" 

Yaudemont  fell  into  an  uneasy  reverie;  he  could  not 
divine  exactly  why  he  should  be  alarmed;  but  he  icas 
alarmed    at    Lilburne    being    in    the    neighborhood    of 

H .      It   was  the  foot  of  the  profane  violating  the 

sanctuary.  An  undefined  thrill  shot  through  him,  as 
his  mind  coupled  together  the  associations  of  Lilburne 
and  Fanny ;  but  there  was  no  ground  for  forebodings. 
Fanny  did  not  stir  out  alone.  An  adventure,  too,  — 
pooh!  Lord  Lilburne  must  be  awaiting  a  willing  and 
voluntary  appointment,  most  probably  from  some  one 
of  tlie  fair  but  decorous  frailties  in  London.  Lord 
Lilburne's  more  recent  conquests  were  said  to  be 
among  those  of  his  own  rank ;  suburbs  are  useful  for 
such  assignations.  Any  other  thought  was  too  horrible 
to  be  contemplated.      He  glanced  to  the  clock ;  it  was 

three  in  the  morning.     He  would  go  to  H early, 

even  before  he  sought  out  Mr.  William  Smith.  With 
that  resolution,  and  even  his  hardy  frame  worn  out  by 
the  excitement  of  the  day,  he  threw  himself  on  his  bed 
and  fell  asleep. 

He  did  not  wake  till  near  nine,  and  had  just  dressed, 
and  hurried  over  his  abstemious  breakfast,  when  the 
.servant  of  the  house  came  to  tell  him  that  an  old 
woman,  apparently  in  great  agitation,  wished  to  see 
him.  His  head  was  still  full  of  witnesses  and  lawsuits; 
and  he  was  vaguely  expecting  some  visitor  connected 
with  his  primary  objects,  when  Sarah  broke  into  the 
room.  She  cast  a  hurried,  suspicious  look  round  her, 
and  then,  throwing  herself  on  her  knees  to  him,  "  Oh!  " 
she  cried,  "  if  you  have  taken  that  poor  young  thing 
away,  God  forgive  you!     Let  her  come  back  again.      It 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  275 

sluill  be  all  hushed  up.     Don't  ruin  her!  don't!  that 's 
a  dear,  good  gentleman!  " 

"  Speak  plainly,  woman,  —  what  do  you  mean  1  "  cried 
Philip,  turning  pale. 

A  very  few  words  sufficed  for  an  explanation:  Fanny's 
disappearance  the  previous  night;  the  alarm  of  Sarah 
at  her  non-return;  the  apathy  of  old  Simon,  who  did  not 
comprehend  what  had  happened,  and  quietly  went  to 
bed;  the  search  Sarah  had  made  during  half  the  night; 
the  intelligence  she  had  picked  up,  that  the  policeman, 
going  his  rounds,  had  heard  a  female  shriek  near  the 
school,  but  that  all  he  could  perceive  through  the  mist 
was  a  carriage  driving  rapidly  past  him;  Sarah's  suspi- 
cions of  Vaudemont,  confirmed  in  the  morning,  when, 
entering  Fanny's  room,  she  perceived  the  poor  girl's 
unfinished  letter  with  his  own;  the  clew  to  his  address 
that  the  latter  gave  her,  —  all  this,  ere  she  well  under- 
stood what  she  herself  was  talking  about,  Vaudemont's 
alarm  seized,  and  the  reflection  of  a  moment  construed. 
The  carriage ;  Lilburne  seen  lurking  in  the  neighbor- 
hood the  previous  day  ;  the  former  attempt,  — all  flashed 
on  him  with  an  intolerable  glare.  While  Sarah  was 
yet  speaking,  he  rushed  from  the  house,  he  flew  to  Lord 
Lilburne's  in  Park  Lane,  he  composed  his  manner,  he 
inquired  calmly.      His  lordship  had  slept  from  home; 

he  was,  they  believed,  at  Fernside :  Fernside!     H 

was  on  the  direct  way  to  that  villa!  Scarcely  ten 
minutes  had  elapsed  since  he  heard  the  story  ere  he  was 
on  the  road,  with  such  speed  as  the  promise  of  a  guinea 
a  mile  could  extract  from  the  spurs  of  a  young  post-boy 
applied  to  the  flanks  of  London  post-horses. 


276  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

Ex  humili  magna  ad  fastigia  rerum 
ExtoUit.i 

JCVEXAL. 

When  Harriet  had  quitted  Fanny,  the  waiting-woman, 
craftily  wishing  to  lure  her  into  Lilburne's  presence, 
had  told  her  that  the  room  below  was  empty ;  and  the 
captive's  mind  naturally  and  instantly  seized  on  the 
thought  of  escape.  After  a  brief  breathing  pause,  she 
crept  noiselessly  down  the  stairs,  and  gently  opened  the 
door;  and  at  the  very  instant  she  did  so,  Robert  Beau- 
fort entered  from  the  other  door;  she  drew  back  in  terror, 
when,  what  was  htir  astonishment  in  hearing  a  name 
uttered  that  spell-bound  her,  —  the  last  name  she  could 
have  expected  to  hear;  for  Lilburne,  the  instant  he  saw 
Beaufort  pale,  haggard,  agitated,  rush  into  the  room, 
and  bang  the  door  after  him,  could  only  suppose  that 
something  of  extraordinary  moment  had  occurred  with 
regard  to  the  dreaded  guest,  and  cried :  "  You  come  about 
Vaudemont!  Something  has  happened  about  Vaude- 
mont!  about  Philip!     What  is  it?     Calm  yourself." 

Fanny,  as  the  name  was  thus  abruptly  uttered,  actually 
thrust  her  face  through  the  door;  but  she  again  drew 
back,  and,  all  her  senses  preternaturally  quickened  at 
that  name,  while  she  held  the  door  almost  closed, 
listened  with  her  whole  soul  in  her  ears. 

The  faces  of  both  the  men  were  turned  from  her, 
and  her  partial  entry  had  not  been  perceived. 

1  Fortune  raises  men  from  low  estate  to  the  very  summit  of 
prosperity. 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  277 

"Yes,"  said  Eobert  Beaufort,  leaning  his  weight,  as 
if  ready  to  sink  to  the  ground,  upon  Lilburne's  shoulder, 

—  "yes:  Vauderaont,  or  Philip,  for  they  are  one, — ■ 
yes,  it  is  about  that  man  I  have  come  to  consult  you. 
Arthur  has  arrived." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  And  Arthur  has  seen  the  wretch  who  visited  us,  and 
the  rascal's  manner  has  so  imposed  on  him,  so  convinced 
him  that  Philip  is  the  heir  to  all  our  property,  that  he 
has  come  over  —  ill,  ill  —  I  fear,"  added  Beaufort,  in  a 
hollow  voice,  "  dying,  to  —  to  —  " 

"  To  guard  against  their  machinations  ?  " 

"  Xo,  no,  no,  —  to  say  that  if  such  be  the  case,  neither 
honor  nor  conscience  will  allow  us  to  resist  his  rights. 
He  is  so  obstinate  in  this  matter,  his  nerves  so  ill  bear 
reasoning  and  contradiction,  that  I  know  not  what  to 
do  —  " 

"  Take  breath,  — go  on." 

"Well,  it  seems  that  this  man  found  out  Arthur 
almost  as  soon  as  my  son  arrived  at  Paris ;  that  he  has 
persuaded  Arthur  that  he  has  it  in  his  power  to  prove 
the  marriage;  that  he  pretended  to  be  very  impatient 
for  a  decision;  that  Arthur,  in  order  to  gain  time  to  see 
me,  affected  irresolution,  took  him  to  Boulogne,  for  the 
rascal  does  not  dare  to  return  to  England,  left  him  there, 

—  and  now  comes  back,  my  own  son,  as  my  worst  enemy, 
to  conspire  against  me  for  my  property!  I  could  not 
have  kept  ray  temper  if  I  had  stayed.  But  that 's  not 
all,  —  that 's  not  the  worst :  Vauderaont  left  me  suddenly 
in  the  morning  on  the  receipt  of  a  letter.  In  taking 
leave  of  Camilla,  he  let  fall  hints  which  fill  me  with 
fear.     Well ,  I  inquired  his  movements  as  I  came  along ; 

he  had  stopped  at  D ,  had  been  closeted  for  above  an 

hour  with  a  man  whose  name  the  landlord  of  the  inu 


278  NIGHT    AND   MORNING. 

knew,  for  it  was  on  his  carpet-hag,  —  the  name  was 
Barlow.  You  rememher  tlie  advertisements!  Good 
heavens!  what  is  to  he  done?  I  wouhl  not  do  anything 
iinhandsome  or  dishonest.  But  there  never  was  a  mar- 
riage. I  never  will  helieve  there  was  a  marriage, 
—  never!  " 

"There  was  a  marriage,  Rohert  Beaufort,"  said  Lord 
Lilhurne,  almost  enjoying  the  torture  he  was  ahout  to 
inflict;  "  and  T  hold  here  a  paper  that  Philip  Vaudemont 
^for  so  we  will  yet  call  hi  in — would  give  his  right 
hand  to  clutcli  for  a  momont.  I  have  hut  just  found  it 
in  a  secret  cavity  in  that  bureau.  Robert,  on  this  paper 
may  depend  the  fate,  the  fortune,  the  prosperity,  the 
greatness  of  Philip  Vaudemont;  or  his  poverty,  his 
exile,  his  ruin!     See!" 

Robert  Beaufort  glanced  over  the  paper  held  out  to 
him,  dropped  it  on  the  floor,  and  staggered  to  a  seat. 
J.illnirne  coolly  replaced  the  document  in  the  bureau, 
and,  limping  to  his  brother-in-law,  said  with  a  smile, 
"But  the  paper  is  in  my  possession, — I  Avill  not 
destroy  it.  No;  I  have  no  right  to  destroy  it.  Besides, 
it  would  be  a  crime ;  but  if  I  give  it  to  you,  yott  can 
do  with  it  as  you  please." 

"  O  Lilhurne,  spare  me,  spare  me!  I  meant  to  be  an 
honest  man.      T  —  T  —  "     And  Robert  Beaufort  sobbed. 

Lilhurne  looked  at  him  in  scornful  surprise. 

"  Do  not  fear  that  /shall  ever  think  worse  of  you ;  and 
who  else  will  know  it?  Do  not  fear  me.  Ko;  I,  too, 
have  reasons  to  hate  and  to  fear  this  Philip  Vaudemont; 
for  Vaudemont  shall  be  his  name,  and  not  Beaufort, 
in  spite  of  fifty  such  scraps  of  paper!  He  has  known  a 
nian,  —  my  worst  foe  ;  he  has  secrets  of  mine,  — of  my 
past,  perhaps  of  my  present:  but  I  laugh  at  his  knowledge 
while  he  is  a  wandering  adventurer;  T  should  tremble 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  279 

at  that  knowledge  if  he  could  thunder  it  out  to  the  world 
as  Philip  Beaufort  of  Beaufort  Court!  There,  I  am 
candid  with  you.  Now  hear  my  plan.  Prove  to  Arthur 
that  his  visitor  is  a  convicted  felon,  by  sending  the 
officers  of  justice  after  him  instantly,  —  off  with  him 
again  to  the  Settlements.  Defy  a  single  witness; 
entrap  Vaudemont  back  to  France,  and  prove  him  (I 
think  I  will  prove  him  such,  —  I  think  so,  —  with 
a  little  money  and  a  little  pains) — prove  him  the 
accomplice  of  William  Gawtrey,  a  coiner  and  a  mur- 
derer! Pshaw!  take  yon  paper.  Do  with  it  as  you 
will ;  keep  it,  give  it  to  Arthur,  —  let  Philip  Vaudemont 
have  it,  and  Philip  Vaudemont  will  be  rich  and  great, 
the  happiest  man  between  earth  and  paradise!  On  the 
other  hand,  come  and  tell  me  that  you  have  lost  it,  or 
that  I  never  gave  you  such  a  paper,  or  that  no  such 
paper  ever  existed;  and  Philip  Vaudemont  may  live  a 
pauper,  and  die,  perhaps  a  slave  at  the  galleys!  Lose 
it,  I  say,  lose  it,  — and  advise  with  me  upon  the  rest." 

Horror-struck,  bewildered,  the  weak  man  gazed  upon 
the  calm  face  of  the  master-villain,  as  the  scholar  of 
the  old  fables  might  have  gazed  on  the  fiend  who  put 
before  him  worldly  prosperity  here  and  the  loss  of  his 
S(ml  hereafter.  He  had  never  hitherto  regarded  Lilburne 
in  his  true  light.  He  was  appalled  by  the  black  heart 
that  lay  bare  before  him. 

"  I  can't  destroy  it,  —  I  can't,"  he  faltered  out;  "  and 
if  I  did,  out  of  love  for  Arthur,  —  don't  talk  of  galleys, 
—  of  vengeance,  I  —  I  —  " 

"  The  arrears  of  the  rents  you  have  enjoyed  will  send 
you  to  jail  for  your  life.  No,  no;  doii't  destroy  the 
paper!  " 

Beaufort  rose  with  a  desperate  effort;  he  moved  to  the 
bureau.     Fanny's  heart  was  on  her  lips.     Of  this  long 


280  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

conference  she  had  understood  only  the  one  broad  point 
on  which  Lilburne  had  insisted  with  an  emphasis  that 
coukl  have  enlightened  an  infant, — and  he  looked  on 
Beaufort  as  an  infant  then :  On  tJiat  paper  rested  Philip 
Vaudemonfs  fate,  —  happiness  if  saved,  ruin  if 
destroyed;  Philip,  —  her  Philip  !  And  Philip  himself 
had  said  to  her  once,  —  when  had  she  ever  forgotten 
his  words?  and  now  how  those  words  flashed  across  her, 
—  Philip  himself  had  said  to  her  once,  "  Upon  a  scrap 
of  paper,  if  I  could  hut  find  it,  may  depend  my  whole 
fortune,  my  whole  happiness,  all  that  I  care  for  in  life." 
Robert  Beaufort  moved  to  the  bureau;  he  seized  the 
document;  he  looked  over  it  again,  hurriedly,  —  and 
ere  Lilburne,  who  by  no  means  wished  to  have  it 
destroyed  in  his  own  presence,  was  aware  of  his  inten- 
tion, he  hastened  with  tottering  steps  to  the  hearth, 
averted  his  eyes,  and  cast  it  on  the  fire.  At  that  instant, 
something  white — he  scarce  knew  what,  it  seemed  to 
him  as  a  spirit,  as  a  ghost  —  darted  by  him,  and  snatched 
the  paper,  as  yet  uninjured,  from  the  embers!  There 
was  a  pause  for  the  hundredth  part  of  a  moment:  a 
gurgling  sound  of  astonishment  and  horror  from  Beaufort, 
an  exclamation  from  Lilburne,  a  laugh  from  Panny,  as, 
her  eyes  flashing  light,  with  a  proud  dilation  of  stature, 
with  the  paper  clasped  tightly  to  her  bosom,  she  turned 
her  looks  of  triumph  from  one  to  the  other.  The  two 
men  were  both  too  amazed,  at  the  instant,  for  rapid 
measures.  But  Lilburne,  recovering  himself  first,  has- 
tened to  her;  she  eluded  his  grasp, — she  made  towards 
the  door  to  the  passage;  when  Lilburne,  seriously 
alarmed,  seized  her  arm:  — 

"  Foolish  child!  —  give  me  that  paper!  " 
"  Never  but  with  my  life !  "    And  Fanny's  cry  for  help 
rang  through  the  house. 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  281 

"Then  —  "  tlie  speech  died  on  his  lips,  for  at  that 
instant  a  rapid  stride  was  heard  without;  a  momentary 
scuffle ;  voices  in  altercation ;  the  door  gave  way  as  if  a 
hattering-ram  hatl  forced  it;  not  so  much  thrown  forward, 
as  actually  hurled  into  the  room,  the  body  of  Dykeman 
fell  heavily,  like  a  dead  man's,  at  the  very  feet  of 
Lord  Lilburne, — and  Philip  Vaudcmont  stood  in  the 
doorway ! 

The  grasp  of  Lilburne  on  Fanny's  arm  relaxed,  and 
the  girl,  with  one  bound,  sprang  to  Philip's  breast. 
"Here,  here!"  she  cried  "take  it,  take  it!"  and  she 
thrust  the  paper  into  his  hand.  "  Don't  let  them  have 
it:  read  it,  —  see  it,  —  never  mind  me!"  But  Philip, 
though  his  hand  unconsciously  closed  on  the  precious 
document,  did  mind  Fanny;  and  in  tliat  moment  her 
cause  was  the  only  one  in  the  world  to  him. 

"Foul  villain!"  he  said,  as  he  strode  to  Lilburne, 
while  Fanny  still  clung  to  his  breast:  "  Speak!  —  speak! 
• —  is  —  she  —  is  she  1  —  man  —  man,  speak  !  —  you  know 
what  I  would  say!  She  is  the  child  of  your  own 
daughter,  the  grandchild  of  that  ^lary  whom  you  dis- 
honored, the  child  of  the  woman  whom  William 
Gawtrey  saved  from  pollution!  Before  he  died,  Gawtrey 
commended  her  to  my  care !  —  0  God  of  Heaven !  — 
speak !  —  I  am  not  too  late !  " 

The  manner,  the  words,  the  face  of  Philip,  left 
Lilburne  terror-stricken  with  conviction.  But  the  man's 
crafty  ability,  debased  as  it  was,  triumphed  even  over 
remorse  for  the  dread  guilt  meditated,  —  over  gratitude  for 
the  dread  guilt  spared.  He  glanced  at  Beaufort,  at  Dyke- 
man,  who  now,  slowly  recovering,  gazed  at  him  with  eyes 
that  seemed  starting  from  their  sockets,  and  lastly  fixed 
his  look  on  Philip  himself.  There  were  three  witnesses, 
—  presence  of  mind  was  his  great  attribute! 


282  NIGHT    AND    MOKNIXG. 

"  And  if,  IMonsieur  de  Vandemont,  I  knew,  or  at  least 
had  the  firmest  persuasion,  tliat  Fanny  was  my  grand- 
child, what  tlien  ?  Why  else  should  she  be  here  1  Pooh, 
sir!     I  am  an  old  m;in." 

I'liilip  recoiled  a  step  in  wonder;  his  plain  sense  was 
hallled  by  the  calm  lie.  He  looked  down  at  Fanny, 
Avlio,  comprehending  nothing  of  what  was  spoken,  for 
all  her  facidties,  even  her  very  sense  of  sight  and 
hearing,  were  absorbed  in  her  impatient  anxiety  for 
him,   cried   out, — 

"No  harm  has  come  to  Fanny,  —  none:  only  fright- 
ened. Read!  read!  Save  that  paper!  You  know  what 
you  once  said  about  a  mere  scrap  of  paper!  Come  away! 
Come  !  " 

He  did  now  cast  his  eyes  on  the  paper  he  held.  That 
was  an  awful  moment  for  Robert  Beaufort,  —  even  for 
Lilburne!  To  snatch  the  fatal  document  from  tJint 
gripe!  They  would  as  soon  have  snatched  it  from  a 
tiger!  He  lifted  his  eyes,  —  they  rested  on  his  mother's 
picture!  Her  lips  smiled  on  him!  He  turned  to 
Beaufort  in  a  state  of  emotion  too  exulting,  too  blessed 
for  vulgar  vengeance,  —  for  vulgar  triumph,  almost  for 
words. 

"Look  yonder,  Robert  Beaufort,  look!"  and  he 
pointed  to  the  picture.  "  Ihr  name  is  spotless!  I 
stand  again  beneath  a  roof  that  was  mv  father's,  —  the 
heir  of  Beaufort!  We  shall  meet  before  the  justice  of 
our  country.  For  you,  Lord  Tjilburne,  I  will  believe 
you:  it  is  too  horrible  to  doubt  even  your  intentions. 
If  wrong  had  chanced  to  her,  I  would  have  rent  you 
Avhcre  you  stand,  limb  from  limb.  And  thank  her" 
("for  r.illjuriie  recovered  at  tliis  language  the  daring  of 
his  youth,  before  calculation,  indolence,  and  excess  had 
dulled    the    edge    of   his    nerves;    and   unawed    by   the 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  283 

lieiL^lit  and  nKiuhood  and  strength  of  his  menacer, 
stalked  haughtily  up  to  him),  —  "  and  thank  your 
relationship  to  her,"  said  Philip,  sinking  his  voice  into 
a  whisper,  "  that  I  do  not  hrand  you  as  a  pilferer  and  a 
cheat!  Hush,  knave!  Hush,  pupil  of  George  Gawtrey ! 
—  there  are  no  duels  for  nie  but  with  men  of  honor!  " 

Lilburne  now  turned  white,  and  the  big  word  stuck 
in  his  throat.  In  another  instant  Fanny  and  her 
guardian    had    quitted    the    house. 

"  Dykeman,"  said  Lord  Lilburne,  after  a  long  silence, 
"  I  shall  ask  you  another  time  how  you  came  to  admit 
that  impertinent  person.  At  present,  go  and  order 
breakfast  for  ^Iv.   Beaufort." 

As  soon  as  Dykeman,  more  astounded,  perhaps,  by  his 
lord's  coolness  than  even  by  the  preceding  circumstances, 
had  left  the  study,  Lilburne  came  up  to  Beaufort,  — who 
seemed  absolutely  stricken  as  if  by  palsy,  —  and  touching 
him  impatiently  and  rudely,  said,  — • 

" 'Sdeath,  man! — rouse  yourself!  There  is  not  a 
moment  to  be  lost!  I  have  already  decided  on  what 
you  are  to  do.  This  paper  is  not  worth  a  rush  unless 
the  curate  who  examined  it  will  depose  to  that  fact. 
He  is  a  curate,  —  a  Welsh  curate;  you  are  yet  Mr. 
Beaufort,  a  rich  and  a  gretit  man.  The  curate,  properly 
managed,  niaij  depose  to  the  contrary;  and  then  we  will 
indict  them  all  for  forgery  and  conspiracy.  At  the 
worst,  you  can,  no  doubt,  get  the  parson  to  forget  all 
about    it,  —  to    stay    away.      His    address    was    on    the 

certificate,  —  C .      Go  yourself  into  Wales,  without 

an  instant's  delay.  Then,  having  arranged  with  Mr. 
Jones,  hurry  back,  cross  to  Boulogne,  and  buy  this 
convict  and  his  witness,  —  yes,  bu]/  them!  That,  now, 
is  the  only  thing.  Quick!  quick!  quick!  Zounds, 
man!   if  it  were  //<y  affair,  ))i>/  estate,  I  would  not  care 


284  NIGHT    AND    MORNING. 

a  pin  for  that  fragment  of  paper;  I  should  rather  rejoice 

at  it.     I  see  how  it  could  be  turned  against  them!     Go!  " 

"  Xo,  no;  I  am  not  equal  to  it!    Will  ijou  manage  it? 

—  will  jou?  Half  my  estate!  All!  Take  it:  hut 
save  —  " 

"  Tut!  "  interrupted  Lord  Lilburne,  in  great  disdain. 
"  I  am  as  rich  as  I  want  to  be.  Money  does  not  bribe 
vie.  1  manage  this.  //  Lord  Lilburne!  I!  Why, 
if  found  out,  it  is  subornation  of  witnesses.  It  is 
exposure,  it  is  dishonor,  —  it  is  ruin.  What  then? 
You  should  take  the  risk,  — for  you  must  meet  ruin  if 
you  do  nut.     /cannot,      i  have  nothing  to  gain!  " 

"  I  dare  not !  —  I  dare  not !  "  murmured  Beaufort, 
quite  spirit-broken.      "  Subornation,  dishonor,  exposure! 

—  and  I,  so  respectable, — my  character  —  and  my  son 
against  me,  too  —  my  son,  in  whom  I  lived  again!  no, 
no;  let  them  take  all!  Let  them  take  it!  Ha!  ha!  let 
them  take  it!     Good-day  to  you." 

"  Where  are  you  going  1  " 

"  1  shall  consult  Mr.  Blackwell,  and  I  '11  let  you 
know. " 

Ami  Beaufort  walked  tremulously  back  to  his  carriage. 

"Go  to  his  lawyer!"  growled  Lilburne.  "Yes,  if 
his  laivyer  can  help  him  to  defraud  men  lawfully,  he  '11 
defraud  them  fast  enough.  That  will  be  the  respectable 
way  of  doing  it!  Um!  —  This  may  be  an  ugly  business 
for  me,  — tlie  paper  found  here,  —  if  the  girl  can  depose 
to  what  she  heard,  and  she  must  have  heard  something. 
No,  I  think  the  laws  of  real  property  will  hardly  allow 
her  evidence;  and  if  they  do  —  um!  —  my  grand- 
daughter!—  is  it  possible?  And  Gawtrey  rescued  her 
mother,  my  child,  from  her  own  mother's  vices!  I 
thought  my  liking  to  that  girl  dilFerent  from  any  other 
I  have  ever  felt:  it  was  pure,  — it  was/  —  it  was  pity, 


l^IGHT   AND    MORNING.  285 

—  affection.  And  I  must  never  see  her  again, — must 
forget  the  whole  thing!  And  I  am  growing  old,  and  I 
am  childless,  —  and  alone!  "  He  paused,  almost  with  a 
groan;  and  then  the  expression  of  his  face  changing  to 
rage,  he  cried  out,  "  The  man  threatened  me,  and  I  was 
a  coward!  What  to  do?  Nothing!  The  defensive  is 
my  line.  I  shall  play  no  more.  I  attack  no  one.  Who 
will  accuse  Lord  Lilburne  ?  Still,  Robert  is  a  fool.  I 
must  not  leave  him  to  himself.      Ho !  there !   Dykeman 

—  the  carriage !     I  shall  go  to  London. " 

Fortunate,  no  doubt,  it  was  for  Philip  that  Mr. 
Beaufort  was  not  Lord  Lilburne.  For  all  history 
teaches  us,  —  public  and  private  historj'-,  conquerors, 
statesmen,  sharp  hypocrites,  and  brave  designers,  — yes, 
they  all  teach  us  how  mighty  one  man  of  great  intellect 
and  no  scruple  is  against  the  justice  of  millions!  The 
one  man  moves,  —  the  mass  is  inert.  Justice  sits  on  a 
throne.  Eoguery  never  rests, — activity  is  the  lever  of 
Archimedes. 


286  NIGHT    AND    :\IOKNING. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

Quam  multa  injusta  ac  prava  fiunt  moribus  i  —  Tull. 

Vol  at  anibiguis 
Mobilis  alis  Hora.^ 

Seneca. 

Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  sought  INIr.  Blackwell,  and 
long,  rambling,  and  disjointed  was  his  narrative.  ]\Ir. 
Blackwell,  after  some  consideration,  proposed  to  set 
about  doing  the  very  things  that  Lilburne  had  proposed 
at  once  to  do.  But  the  lawyer  expressed  himself  legally 
and  covertly,  so  that  it  did  not  seem  to  the  sober  sense 
of  Mr.  Beaufort  at  all  the  same  plan.  He  was  not  the 
least  alarmed  at  what  Mr.  Blackwell  proposed,  though 
so  shocked  at  what  Lilburne  dictated.  Blackwell  would 
go  the  next  day  into  \Yales;  lie  would  find  out  Mr. 
Jones;  he  would  sound  him!  Xothing  was  more 
common,  with  people  of  the  nicest  honor,  than  just  to 
get  a  witness  out  of  the  way!  Done  in  election 
petitions,   for   instance,  every    day. 

"True,"  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  much  relieved. 

Then,  after  having  done  that,  Mr.  Blackwell  would 
return  to  town,  and  cross  over  to  Boulogne  to  see  this 
very  impudent  person  whom  Arthur  (yoang  men  were 
so  apt  to  be  taken  in!)  had  actually  believed.  He  had 
no  doubt  he  could  .settle  it  all.  Robert  Beaufort  returned 
to  Berkeley  Square  actually  in  spirits. 

1  How  many  unjust  and  vicious  actions  are  perpetrated  under 
the  name  of  morals. 
^  The  hour  flies,  moving  with  douljtful  wings. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  287 

There  he  found  Lilburne,  who,  on  reflection,  seeing 
that  Blackwell  was  at  all  events  more  up  to  the  business 
than  his  brother,  assented  to  the  propriety  of  the 
arrangement. 

Mr.  Blackwell  accordingly  did  set  off  the  next  day. 
That  next  day,  perhaps,  made  all  the  difference.  Within 
two  hours  from  his  gaining  the  document  so  important, 
Philip,  without  any  subtler  exertion  of  intellect  than 
the  decision  of  a  plain,  bold  sense,  had  already  fore- 
stalled both  the  peer  and  the  lawyer.  He  had  sent  down 
Mr.  Barlow's  head  clerk  to  his  master  in  Wales  with 
the  document,  and  a  short  account  of  the  manner  in 
which  it  had  been  discovered.  And  fortunate,  indeed, 
was  it  that  the  copy  had  been  found  ;  for  all  tlie  inquiries 

of  Mr.  Barlow  at  A had  failed,  and  probably  would 

have  failed,  without  such  a  clew,  in  fastening  upon  any 
one  probable  person  to  have  officiated  as  Caleb  Price's 
amanuensis.  The  sixteen  hours'  start  Mr.  Barlow 
gained  over  Blackwell  enabled  the  former  to  see  Mr. 
Jones ;  to  show  him  his  own  handwriting ;  to  get  a  written 
and  witnessed  attestation  from  which  the  curate,  however 
poor,  and  however  tempted,  could  never  well  have  escaped 
(even  had  he  been  dishonest,  which  he  was  not),  of  his 
perfect  recollection  of  the  fact  of  making  an  extract  from 
the  registry  at  Caleb's  desire,  though  he  owned  he  had 
quite  forgotten  the  names  he  extracted  till  they  were 
again  placed  before  him.  Barlow  took  care  to  arouse 
]\lr.  Jones's  interest  in  the  case,  quitted  Wales,  has- 
tened over  to  Bovilogne,  saw  Captain  Smith,  and  without 
bribes,  without  threats,  but  by  plainly  proving  to  that 
worthy  person  tbat  he  could  not  return  to  England  nor 
see  his  brother  without  being  immediately  arrested  ;  that 
his  brother's  evidence  was  already  pledfjed  on  the  side 
of  trath ,  and  that  by  the  acquisition  of  new  testimony 


288  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

there  could  be  no  doubt  that  the  suit  would  be  suc- 
cessful,—  he  diverted  the  captain  from  all  disposition 
towards  perfidy,  convinced  him  on  which  side  his  interest 
lay,  and  saw  him  return  to  Paris,  where  very  shortly 
afterwards  he  disappeared  forever  from  this  world,  being 
forced  into  a  duel,  much  against  his  will  (with  a 
Frenchman  whom  he  had  attempted  to  defraud)  and  shot 
through  the  lungs:  thus  verifying  a  favorite  maxim  of 
Lord  Lilburne's,  —  namely,  that  it  does  not  do,  on  the 
long  run,  for  little  men  to  play  the  great  game. 

On  the  same  day  that  Blackwell  returned,  frustrated 
in  his  half-and-half  attempts  to  corrupt  Mr.  Jones,  and 
not  having  been  able  even  to  discover  Mr.  Smith,  Mr. 
Kobert  Beaufort  received  notice  of  an  action  for  ejectment 
to  be  brought  by  Philip  Beaufort  at  the  next  assizes. 
And,  to  add  to  his  afflictions,  Arthur,  whom  he  had 
hitherto  endeavored  to  amuse  by  a  sort  of  ambiguous 
shilly-shally  correspondence,  became  so  alarmingly 
worse,  that  his  mother  brought  him  up  to  town  for  advice. 
Lord  Lilburne  was,  of  course,  sent  for;  and,  on  learning 
all,  his  counsel  was  prompt. 

"  I  told  you  before  that  this  man  loves  your  daughter. 
See  if  you  can  effect  a  compromise.  The  lawsuit  will 
be  ugly,  and  probably  ruinous.  He  has  a  right  to  claim 
six  years'  arrears,  —  that  is  above  £100,000.  ]\Iake 
yourself  his  father-in-law,  and  me  his  uncle-in-law; 
and,  since  we  can't  kill  the  wasp,  we  may  at  least 
soften  the  venom  of  liis  sting." 

Beaufort,  still  perplexed,  irresolute,  sought  his  son, 
and,  for  the  first  time,  spoke  to  him  franlcly,  — that  is, 
frankly  for  llobert  Beaufort!  He  owned  tliat  the 
copy  of  tlie  register  had  been  found  by  Lilburne  in  a 
secret  drawer.  He  made  the  best  of  the  story  Lilburne 
himself  furnished  liini  with  (adhering,  of  course,  to  the 


NIGHT    AND    MOKXING.  289 

assertion  uttered  or  insinuated  to  Philip)  in  regard  to 
Fanny's  abduction  and  interposition;  he  said  nothing  of 
his  attempt  to  destroy  the  paper.  Why  should  he? 
By  admitting  the  copy  in  court,  —  if  so  advised, — he 
could  get  rid  of  Fanny's  evidence  altogether;  even 
without  such  concession,  her  evidence  might  possibly  be 
olyected  to,  or  eluded.  He  confessed  that  he  feared  the 
witness  who  copied  the  register  and  the  witness  to  the 
marriage  were  alive.  And  then  he  talked  pathetically 
of  his  desire  to  do  what  was  right,  his  dread  of  slander 
and  misinterpretation.  He  said  nothing  of  Sidney,  and 
his  belief  that  Sidney  and  Charles  Spencer  were  the 
same;  because,  if  his  daughter  were  to  be  the  instrument 
for  effecting  a  compromise,  it  was  clear  that  her  engage- 
ment with  Spencer  must  be  cancelled  and  concealed. 
And  luckily  Arthur's  illness  and  Camilla's  timidity, 
joined  now  to  her  father's  injunctions  not  to  excite 
Arthur  in  his  present  state  with  any  additional  causes 
of  anxiety,  prevented  the  confidence  that  might  other- 
wise have  ensued  between  the  brother  and  sister.  And 
Camilla,  indeed,  had  no  heart  for  such  a  conference. 
How,  when  she  looked  on  Arthur's  glassy  eye,  and 
listened  to  his  hectic  cough,  could  she  talk  to  him  of 
love  and  marriage  1  As  to  the  automaton,  Mrs.  Beaufort, 
llobert  made  sure  of  her  discretion. 

Arthur  listened  attentively  to  his  father's  communi- 
cation, and  the  result  of  that  interview  was  the  following 
letter  from  Arthur  to  his  cousin :  — 

I  write  to  you  without  fear  of  misconstruction  ;  for  I  write 
to  you  unknown  to  all  my  family,  and  I  am  the  only  one  of 
them  who  can  have  no  personal  interest  in  tlie  strusfgle  about 
to  take  place  between  my  father  and  yourself.  Before  the  law 
can  decide  between  you,  I  shall  be  in  my  grave.  I  write  this 
from  the  bed  of  death.  Philip,  I  write  this,  —  /,  who  stood 
vol.   II.  —  19 


290  NIGHT    AND    MORNING, 

beside  a  deuthbed  more  sacred  to  you  than  mine,  —  T,  who  re- 
ceived your  motiier's  last  sigh.     And  with  that  sigh  there  was 
a  smile  that  lasted  when  the  sigh  was  gone  :  for  I  promised  to 
befriend  her  children      Heaven  knows  how  anxiously  I  sought 
to  fulfil  that  solemn  vow!     Feeble  and  sick  myself,  I  followed 
you  and  your  brother  with  no  aim,  no  prayer,  but  this,  —  to 
embrace  you  iind  say,  "  Accept  a  new  brother  in  me."     I  spare 
you  the  humiliation  —  for  it  is  yours,  not  mine  —  of  recalling 
what  passed  between  us  when  at  last   we   met.     Yet  I   stdl 
sought  to  save,  at  least,  Sidney,  —  more  especially  confided  to 
my  care  by  his  dying  mother.     He  mysteriously  eUuled  our 
search  ;  but  we  had  reason,  by  a  letter  received  from  some  un- 
known hand,  to  believe  him  saved  and  provided  for.     Again 
I  met  you  at   Paris.     I  saw  you  were  poor.     Judging  from 
your   associate,   I    might,  with   justice,  think    you   depraved. 
Mindful  of  your   declaration  never  to  accept  bounty  from  a 
Beaufort,  and  remembering  with  natural  resentment  the  out- 
rage [  had  before  received  from  you,  I  judged  it  vain  to  seek 
and  remonstrate  with  you,  but  I  did  not  judge  it  vain  to  aid. 
I  sent  you,  anonymously,  what  at  least  would  suffice,  if  abso- 
lute poverty  had  sul)jected  you  to  evil  courses,  to  rescue  you 
from  them  if  yonr  heart  were  so  disposed.     Perhaps  that  sura, 
trifling  as  it  was,  may  have  smoothed  your  path  and  assisted 
your  career.     And  why  tell  you  all  this  now  ?     To  dissuade 
from  asserting  rights  you  conceive  to  be  just  ?     Heaven  for- 
bid !     If  justice  is  witli  you,  so  also  is  the  duty  due  to  your 
mother's  name.      But  simply  for  this  :  that  in  asserting  such 
rights,  you  content  yourself  with  justice,  not  revenge,  —  that 
in    righting  yourself,  you   do  not  wrong  others.     If  the  law 
should  decide  for  you,  the  arrears  you  could  demand  would 
leave  my  father  and  sister  beggars      This  may  be  law,— it 
would  not  be  justice  ;  for  my  father  solemnly  believed  himself, 
and  had  every  apparent  probability  in  his  favor,  the  true  heir 
of   the  wealth   that   devolved    upon    him.     This   is   not   all. 
There  mav  be  circumstances  connected  with  the  discovery  of 
a  certain  document  that,  if  authentic,  —  and  I  do  not  presume 
to  question  it,  —may  decide  the  contest  so  far  as  it  rests  on 
truth  ;  circumstances  which  might  seem  to  bear  hard  upon  my 


NIGHT   AND   MOIINING.  291 

father's  good  name  and  faith.  I  do  not  know  sufficiently  of 
law  to  say  how  far  these  could  be  publicly  urged,  or,  if  urged, 
exaggerated  and  tortured  liy  an  advocate's  calumnious  inge- 
nuity. But  again  1  say,  justice,  and  not  revenge  !  And  with 
this  I  conclude,  enclosing  to  you  these  lines,  written  in  your 
own  hand,  and  leaving  you  the  arbiter  ot  their  value. 

Arthur  Beaufort. 

The  lines  enclosed  were  these,  a  second  time  placed 
before  the  reader :  — 

1  cannot  guess  who  you  are.  They  say  that  you  call  your- 
self a  relation  ;  that  must  be  some  mistake.  I  knew  not  that 
my  poor  mother  had  relations  so  kind.  But,  whoever  you 
be,  you  soothed  her  last  hours,  —  she  died  in  your  arms  ;  and 
if  ever  —  years,  long  years,  hence  —  we  should  chance  to  meet, 
and  I  can  do  anything  to  aid  another,  my  blood  and  my  life 
and  my  heart  and  my  soul,  all  are  slaves  to  your  will !  If 
you  be  really  of  her  kindred,  I  commend  to  you  my  brother; 

he  is  at ,  with  Mr.  Morton.     If  you  can  serve  him,  my 

mother's  soul  will  watch  over  you  as  a  guardian  angel.  As 
ioT  me,  I  ask  no  help  from  any  one  ;  I  go  into  the  world,  and 
will  carve  out  my  own  way.  So  much  do  I  shrink  from  the 
thought  of  charity  from  others,  that  I  do  not  believe  I  could 
bless  you  as  I  do  now,  if  your  kindness  to  me  did  not  close 

with  the  stone  upon  my  mother's  grave. 

Philip. 

This  letter  was  sent  to  the  only  address  of  Monsieur 
de  Vaudemont  which  the  Beauforts  knew, — namely, 
his  apartments  in  town,  —  and  he  did  not  receive  it 
the  day  it  was  sent. 

^Meanwhile  Arthur  Beaufort's  malady  continued  to 
gain  ground  rapidly.  His  father,  absorbed  in  his  own 
more  selfish  fears  (though,  at  the  first  sight  of  Arthur, 
overcome  by  the  alteration  of  his  appearance),  had 
ceased  to  consider  his  illness  fatal.  In  fact,  his  affec- 
tion for  Arthur  was  rather  one  of  pride  than  love;  long 


292  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

absence  liad  weakened  the  ties  of  early  custom.  He 
prized  him  as  an  lieir  rather  than  treasured  him  as  a 
son.  It  almost  seemed  that,  as  the  heritage  was  in 
danger,  so  the  heir  became  less  dear:  this  was  only 
because  he  was  loss  thought  of.  Poor  jNIrs.  Beaufort, 
yet  but  partially  acquainted  with  the  terrors  of  her 
husband,  still  clung  to  hope  for  Arthur.  Her  affection 
for  him  brought  out  from  the  depths  of  her  cold  and 
insignificant  character  qualities  that  had  never  before 
been  apparent.  She  watched,  she  nursed,  she  tended 
him.  The  fine  lady  was  gone;  nothing  but  the  mother 
was  left  behind. 

With  a  delicate  constitution,  and  with  an  easy  temper, 
which  yielded  to  tlie  influence  of  companions  inferior 
to  himself,  except  in  bodily  vigor  and  more  sturdy  will, 
Arthur  Beaufort  had  been  ruined  by  prosperity.  His 
talents  and  acquirements,  if  not  first-rate,  at  least  far 
above  mediocrity,  had  only  served  to  refine  his  tastes, 
not  to  strengthen  his  mind.  His  amiable  impulses,  his 
charming  disposition,  and  sweet  temper  had  only  served 
to  make  him  the  dupe  of  the  parasites  that  feasted  on 
the  lavish  heir.  His  heart,  frittered  away  in  the  usual 
round  of  light  intrigues  and  hollow  pleasures,  had  be^ 
come  too  sated  and  exhausted  for  the  redeeming  blessings 
of  a  deep  and  noble  love.  He  had  so  lived  for  pleasure 
that  he  had  never  known  happiness.  His  frame  broken 
by  excesses  in  which  his  better  nature  never  took 
delight,  he  came  home,  —  to  hear  of  ruin  and  to  die! 

It  was  evening  in  the  sick-room.  Arthur  had  risen 
from  the  bed  to  which,  for  some  days,  he  had  volun- 
tarily taken,  and  was  stretched  on  the  sofa  before  the 
fire.  Camilla  was  leaning  over  him,  keeping  in  the 
shade  that  he  might  not  see  the  tears  which  she  could 
not   suppress.     His    mother   had   been   endeavoring   to 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  203 

amuse  him,  as  she  wouhl  liave  amvised  herself,  hy  read- 
iiiL'  aloud  one  of  the  li"lit  novels  of  the  hour;  novels 
that  paint  the  life  of  the  higher  classes  as  one  gorgeous 
holiday. 

"  My  dear  mother,"  said  the  patient,  querulously, 
"I  have  no  interest  in  these  false  descriptions  of  the 
life  I  have  led.  I  know  that  life's  worth.  Ah!  had 
I  been  trained  to  some  employment,  some  profession! 
had  I  —  well,  it  is  weak  to  repine.  Mother,  tell  me, 
you  have  seen  Monsieur  de  Vaudemont;  is  he  strong 
and  health)!?  " 

"  Yes;  too  much  so.  He  has  not  your  elegance,  dear 
Arthur." 

"And  do  you  admire  him,  Camilla?  Has  no  other 
caught  your  heart  or  your  fancy  1  " 

"My  dear  Artliur,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Beaufort,  "you 
forget  that  Camilla  is  scarcely  out ;  and  of  course  a  young 
girl's  affections,  if  she  's  well  brought  up,  are  regulated 
by  the  experience  of  her  parents.  It  is  time  to  take  the 
medicine:  it  certainly  agrees  with  you;  you  have  more 
color  to-day,  my  dear,  dear  son." 

While  Mrs.  Beaufort  was  pouring  out  the  medicine, 
the  door  gently  opened,  and  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort 
appeared;  behind  him  there  rose  a  taller  and  a  statelier 
form,  but  one  which  seemed  more  bent,  more  humbled, 
more  agitated.  Beaufort  advanced.  Camilla  looked  up 
and  turned  pale.  The  visitor  escaped  from  Mr.  Beau- 
fort's grasp  on  his  arm;  he  came  forward,  trembling;  he 
fell  on  his  knees  beside  Arthur,  and,  seizing  his  hand, 
bent  over  it  in  silence :  but  silence  so  stormy !  silence 
more  impressive  than  all  words;  his  breast  heaved,  his 
whole  frame  shook.  Arthur  guessed  at  once  whom  he 
saw,  and  bent  down  gently,  as  if  to  raise  his  visitor. 

"Oh,  Arthur!   Arthur!"  then  cried  Philip;  "forgive 


294  NIG  ITT   AND    MOliNING. 

me!  My  mother's  comforter,  my  cousin,  my  brother! 
Oh!  brother,  forgive  me!  " 

And  as  he  half -rose,  Arthur  stretched  out  his  arms, 
and  Philip  clasped  him  to  his  breast. 

It  is  in  vain  to  describe  the  different  feelings  that 
agitated  those  who  beheld;  the  selfish  congratulations 
of  Robert,  mingled  with  a  better  and  purer  feeling;  the 
stupor  of  the  mother;  the  emotions  that  she  herself 
could  not  unravel,  which  rooted  Camilla  to  the  spot. 

"  You  own  me,  then,  — you  own  me!  "  cried  Philip. 
"  You  accept  the  brotherhood  that  my  mad  passions  once 
rejected!  And  you,  too,  —  you,  Camilla, — you  who 
once  knelt  by  my  side,  under  this  very  roof,  —  do  you 
remember  me  7ioiv  ?  Oh,  Arthur!  that  letter,  that 
letter!  — yes,  indeed,  that  aid,  which  I  ascribed  to  any 
one  rather  than  to  you,  made  the  date  of  a  fairer  fortune. 
I  may  have  owed  to  that  aid  the  very  fate  that  has 
preserved  me  till  now,  —  the  very  name  which  I  have 
not  discredited.  No,  no;  do  not  think  you  can  ask  ine 
a  favor;  you  can  but  claim  your  due.  Brother!  my 
dear   brother !  " 


0' 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  295 


CHAPTER  XVIT. 

W<inrirl\ — Excecdiug  woll !  his  cares  are  now  all  over. — 
Henry  IV. 

Thk  excitement  of  tliis  iuterview  soon  overpowering 
Arthur,  Philip,  in  quitting  the  room  with  Mr.  Beau- 
fort, asked  a  conference  with  that  gentleman ;  and  they 
went  into  the  very  parlor  from  which  the  rich  man  had 
once  threatened  to  expel  the  haggard  suppliant.  Philip 
glanced  round  the  room,  and  the  whole  scene  came 
again  before  him.      After  a  pause,  he  thus  began,  — 

"  Mr.  Beaufort,  let  the  past  be  forgotten.  We  may  have 
need  of  mutual  forgiveness,  and  I,  who  have  so  wronged 
your  noble  son,  am  willing  to  suppose  that  I  misjudged 
you.      I  cannot,  it  is  true,  forego  this  lawsuit." 

Mr.  Beaufort's  face  fell. 

"  I  have  no  right  to  do  so.  I  am  the  trustee  of  my 
father's  honor  and  my  mother's  name ;  I  must  vindi- 
cate both ;  I  cannot  forego  this  lawsuit.  But  when  I 
once  bowed  myself  to  enter  your  house,  —  then  only 
"snth  a  hope,  where  now  I  have  the  certainty  of  obtaining 
my  heritage,  —  it  was  with  the  resolve  to  bury  in 
oblivion  every  sentiment  that  would  transgress  the 
most  temperate  justice.  Note,  I  will  do  more.  If  the 
law  decide  against  me,  we  are  as  we  were;  if  with  me, 
—  listen:  I  will  leave  you  the  lands  of  Beaufort,  for 
your  life  and  your  son's.  I  ask  but  for  me  and  for 
mine  such  a  deduction  from  your  wealth  as  will  enable 
me,  should  my  brother  be  yet  living,  to  provide  for 
him,  and  (if  you  approve  the  choice,  which  out  of  all 


296  KIGHT   A^■D    MORNING. 

earth  I  -would  desire  to  make)  to  give  Avhatever  belongg 
to  more  refined  or  graceful  existence  than  I  myself  care 
for  to  her  whom  I  would  call  my  wife.  Robert  Beau- 
fort, in  this  room  I  once  asked  you  to  restore  to  me  the 
only  being  I  then  loved:  I  am  now  again  your  sup- 
pliant; and  this  time  you  have  it  in  your  power  to 
grant  my  prayer.  Let  Arthur  be,  in  truth,  my  brother: 
give  me,  if  I  prove  myself,  as  I  feel  assured,  entitled 
to  hold  the  name  my  father  bore,  give  me  your  daughter 
as  my  wife,  —  give  me  Camilla,  and  I  will  not  envy  you 
the  lands  I  am  willing  for  myself  to  resign ;  and  if  they 
pass  to  my  children,  those  children  will  be  your 
daughter's!  " 

The  first  impulse  of  Mr.  Beaufort  was  to  grasp  the 
hand  held  out  to  him,  —  to  pour  forth  an  incoherent 
torrent  of  praise  and  protestation,  of  assurances  that  he 
could  not  hear  of  such  generosity,  that  what  was  right 
was  right,  that  he  should  be  proud  of  such  a  son-in-law, 
and  much  more  to  the  same  key.  And  in  the  midst  of 
this  it  suddenly  occurred  to  Mr.  Beaufort  that  if 
Philip's  case  were  really  as  good  as  he  said  it  was,  he 
could  not  talk  so  coolly  of  resigning  the  property  it 
■would  secure  him  for  the  term  of  a  life  (]\Ir.  Beaufort 
thought  of  his  own)  so  uncommonly  good,  to  say  nothing 
of  Arthur's.  At  this  notion,  he  thought  it  best  not  to 
commit  himself  too  far;  drew  in  as  artfully  as  he  could, 
until  he  could  consult  Lord  Lilburne  and  his  lawyer; 
and,  recollecting  also  that  he  had  a  great  deal  to  manage 
with  respect  to  Camilla  and  her  prior  attachment,  he 
began  to  talk  of  his  distress  for  Arthur,  of  the  necessity 
of  waiting  a  little  before  Camilla  was  spoken  to,  while 
so  agitated  about  her  brother,  of  the  exceedingly  strong 
case  which  his  lawyer  advised  him  he  possessed,  —  not 
but   what  he  would  rather  rest  the  matter  on  justice 


NIGHT    AND    MORN-IXO.  297 

than  law,  —  and  that  if  the  law  should  be  with  him,  he 
would  not  the  less  (provided  he  did  not  force  his 
daughter's  inclinations,  of  which,  indeed,  he  had  no 
fear)  be  most  haiipy  to  bestow  her  hand  on  his  brother's 
son,  with  such  a  portion  as  would  be  most  handsome 
to  all  parties. 

It  often  happens  to  us  in  this  world,  that  wlien  we 
come  with  our  heart  in  our  hands  to  some  person  or 
other;  when  we  pour  out  some  generous  burst  of  feeling 
so  enthusiastic  and  self-sacriticing,  that  a  bystander 
would  call  us  fool  and  Quixote,  — it  often,  T  say,  hap- 
pens to  us  to  find  our  warm  self  suddenly  thrown  back 
upon  our  cold  self,  to  discover  that  we  are  utterly  uncom- 
prehended,  and  that  the  swine  who  would  have  miuiched 
up  the  acorn  does  not  know  what  to  make  of  the  pearl. 
That  sudden  ice  which  then  freezes  over  us,  that  supreme 
disgust  and  despair  almost  of  the  whole  world,  which 
for  the  moment  we  confound  with  the  one  worldling, 
—  they  who  have  felt  may  reasonably  ascribe  to  Philip. 
He  listened  to  Mr.  Beaufort  in  utter  and  contemptuous 
silence,  and  then  replied  only,  — 

"  Sir,  at  all  events,  this  is  a  question  for  law  to  decide. 
If  it  decide  as  you  think,  it  is  for  you  to  act;  if  as  I 
think,  it  is  for  me.  Till  then,  I  will  speak  to  you  no 
more  of  your  daughter,  or  my  intentions.  Meanwhile 
all  I  ask  is  the  liberty  to  visit  your  son.  I  would  not 
be  banished  from  his  sick-room!  " 

"  My  dear  nephew !  "  cried  Mr.  Beaufort,  again 
alarmed,  "  consider  this  house  as  your  home." 

Philip  bowed  and  retreated  to  the  door,  followed 
obsequiously  by  his  uncle. 

It  chanced  that  both  Lord  Lilburne  and  ^Ir.  Black- 
well  were  of  the  same  mind  as  to  the  course  advisal)Ie  for 
Mr.  Beaufort   now  to  pursue.      Lord  Lilburne  was  not 


'298  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

only  anxious  to  exchange  a  hostile  litigation  for  an 
amicable  lawsuit,  but  he  was  really  eager  to  put  the  seal 
of  relationship  upon  any  secret  with  regard  to  himself, 
that  a  man  who  might  inherit  £20,000  a  year  —  a  dead 
shot,  and  a  bold  tongue  —  might  think  fit  to  disclose. 
This  made  him  more  earnest  than  he  otherwise  might 
have  been  in  advice  as  to  other  people's  affairs.  He 
spoke  to  Beaufort  as  a  man  of  the  world,  —  to  Blackwell 
as  a  lawyer. 

"  Pin  the  man  down  to  his  generosity,"  said  Lilburne, 
"  before  he  gets  the  property.  Possession  makes  a  great 
change  in  a  man's  value  of  money.  After  all,  you  can't 
enjoy  the  property  when  you  're  dead:  he  gives  it  next 
to  Arthur,  who  is  not  married;  and  if  anything  happen 
to  Arthur,  poor  fellow,  why  in  devolving  on  your  daugh- 
ter's husband  and  children,  it  goes  in  the  right  line. 
Pin  him  down  at  once :  get  credit  with  the  world  for  the 
most  noble  and  disinterested  conduct,  by  letting  your 
counsel  state  that  the  instant  you  discovered  the  lost 
document,  you  wished  to  throw  no  obstacle  in  the  way 
of  proving  the  marriage,  and  that  the  only  thing  to 
consider  is,  if  the  marriage  be  proved;  if  so,  you  will 
be  the  first  to  rejoice,  etc.,  etc.  You  know  all  that 
sort  of  humbug  as  well  as  any  man!  " 

Mr.  Blackwell  suggested  the  same  advice,  though  in 
different  words,  —  after  taking  the  opinions  of  three 
eminent  members  of  the  bar.  Those  opinions,  indeed, 
were  not  all  alike:  one  was  adverse  to  Mr.  Tiobert 
Beaufort's  chance  of  success,  one  was  doubtful  of  it,  the 
tliird  maintained  that  he  had  nothing  to  fear  from  the 
action,  —  except,  possibly,  the  ill-natured  construction 
of  the  world.  Mr.  liobert  Beaufort  disliked  the  idea  of 
the  world's  ill-nature,  almost  as  much  as  he  did  that 
of  losing  his  property.     And  when  even  this  last  and 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  299 

more  encouraging  authority,  learning  privately  from 
Mr.  TUackwell  that  Arthur's  illness  was  of  a  nature  to 
terminate  fatally,  observed,  "  that  a  compromise  with  a 
claimant,  who  was  at  all  events  Mr.  Beaufort's  nephew, 
l)y  which  Mr.  Beaufort  could  secure  the  enjoyment  of 
the  estates  to  himself  for  life,  and  to  his  son  for  life 
also,  should  not  (whatever  his  probabilities  of  legal 
success)  be  hastily  rejected,  unless  he  had  a  peculiar 
affection  for  a  very  distant  relation,  —  who,  failing  ]\[r. 
Beaufort's  male  issue  and  Philip's  claim,  would  be  heir- 
at-law,  but  whose  rights  would  cease  if  Arthur  liked  to 
cut  off  the  entail,"  —  Mr.  Beaufort  at  once  decided.  He 
had  a  personal  dislike  to  that  distant  heir-at-law;  he 
had  a  strong  desire  to  retain  the  esteem  of  the  world ; 
he  had  an  intimate  conviction  of  the  justice  of  Philip's 
claim ;  he  had  a  remorseful  recollection  of  his  brother's 
generous  kindness  to  himself;  he  preferred  to  have  for 
his  heir,  in  case  of  Arthur's  decease,  a  nephew  who 
would  marry  his  daughter,  than  a  remote  kinsman. 
And  should,  after  all,  the  lawsuit  fail  to  prove  Philip's 
right,  he  was  not  sorry  to  have  the  estate  in  his  own 
power  by  Arthur's  act  in  cutting  off  the  entail.  Brief: 
all  these  reasons  decided  him.  He  saw  Philip,  he 
spoke  to  Arthur,  —  and  all  the  preliminaries,  as  sug- 
gested above,  were  arranged  between  the  parties.  The 
entail  was  cut  off,  and  Arthur  secretl}'  prevailed  upon 
his  father,  to  whom,  for  the  present,  the  fee-simple  thus 
belonged,  to  make  a  will,  by  which  he  bequeathed  the 
estates  to  Philip,  without  reference  to  the  question  of 
his  legitimacy.  Mr.  Beaufort  felt  his  conscience  greatly 
eased  after  this  action,  —  which,  too,  he  could  always 
retract  if  he  pleased ;  and  henceforth  the  lawsuit  became 
but  a  matter  of  form  so  far  as  the  property  it  involved 
was  concerned. 


300  KIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

Wliile  tliese  negotiations  went  on,  Arthur  continued 
gradually  to  decline.  Philip  was  with  him  always. 
Tlie  sufferer  took  a  strange  liking  to  this  long-dreaded 
relation,  this  man  of  iron  frame  and  thews.  In  Philip 
there  was  so  much  of  life,  that  Arthur  almost  felt  as  if 
in  I'.is  presence  itself  there  was  an  antagonism  to  death. 
And  Camilla  saw  thus  her  cousin,  day  by  day,  hour  by 
hour,  in  that  sick-chamber,  lending  himself,  with  the 
gentle  tenderness  of  a  woman,  to  soften  the  pang,  to 
arouse  the  weariness,  to  cheer  the  dejection.  Philip 
never  spoke  to  her  of  love:  in  such  a  scene  that  had 
been  impossible.  She  overcame  in  their  mutual  cares 
the  embarrassment  she  had  before  felt  in  his  presence; 
whatever  her  other  feelings,  she  could  not,  at  least,  but  be 
grateful  to  one  so  tender  to  her  brother.  Three  letters 
of  Charles  Spencer's  had  been,  in  the  afflictions  of  the 
house,  only  answered  by  a  brief  line.  She  now  took 
the  occasion  of  a  momentary  and  delusive  amelioration 
in  Arthur's  disease  to  write  to  him  more  at  length. 
She  was  carrying,  as  usual,  the  letter  to  her  mother, 
Avhen  Mr.  Beaufort  met  her,  and  took  the  letter  from 
her  hand.  He  looked  embarrassed  for  a  moment,  and 
bade  her  follow  him  into  his  study.  It  was  then  that 
Camilla  learned,  for  the  first  time  distinctly,  the  claims 
and  rights  of  her  cousin :  then  she  learned  also  at  what 
price  those  rights  were  to  be  enforced  Avith  the  least 
possible  injury  to  her  father.  Mr.  Beaufort  naturally 
pnt  the  case  before  her  in  the  strongest  point  of  the 
dilemma.  He  was  to  be  ruined, — utterly  ruined;  a 
])auper,  a  beggar,  if  Camilla  did  not  save  him.  The 
master  of  his  fate  demanded  his  daughter's  hand. 
Habitually  subservient  to  even  a  whim  of  her  parents, 
this  intelligence,  the  entreaty,  the  command  with 
whicii    it   was    accompanied,    overwhelmed    her.       She 


KIGIIT    AND   MORNING.  301 

answered  but  by  tears;  and  ^h.  Beaufort,  assured  of  her 
submission,  left  ber,  to  consider  of  the  tone  of  tbe  letter 
lie  bimself  sbould  write  to  Mr.  Spencer.  He  had  sat 
down  to  tliis  very  task  when  be  was  summoned  to 
Arthur's  room.  His  son  was  suddenly  taken  worse: 
spasms  that  threatened  immediate  danger  convulsed 
and  exhausted  him;  and  when  these  were  allayed,  he 
continued  for  three  days  so  feeble  that  Mr.  Beaufort,  his 
eyes  now  thoroughly  open  to  the  loss  that  awaited  him, 
had  no  thoucrhts  even  for  workllv  interests. 

On  the  night  of  the  third  day  Philip,  Robert  Beau- 
fort, his  wife,  his  daughter,  were  grouped  round  the 
deatlibed  of  Arthur.  The  sufferer  bad  just  wakened 
from  sleep,  and  he  motioned  to  Philip  to  raise  him. 
Mr.  Beaufort  started,  as  by  the  dim  light  he  saw  his 
son  in  the  arms  of  Catherine's  !  and  another  chamber  of 
death  seemed,  shadow-like,  to  replace  the  one  before 
him.  Words,  long  since  uttered,  knelled  in  his  ear, 
"  There  shall  be  a  deathbed  yet  beside  which  you  shall 
see  the  spectre  of  her,  now  so  calm,  rising  for  retribu- 
tion from  the  grave!  "  His  blood  froze,  his  hair  stood 
erect;  he  cast  a  hurried,  shrinking  glance  round  the 
twilight  of  the  darkened  room,  and,  with  a  feeble  cry, 
covered  his  white  face  with  his  trembling  hands!  But 
on  Arthur's  lips  there  was  a  serene  smile;  he  turned 
his  eyes  from  Philip  to  Camilla,  and  murmured,  "  She 
will  repay  you!"  A  pause,  and  the  mother's  shriek 
rang  through  the  room!  Robert  Beaufort  raised  his  face 
from  his  hands.     His  son  was  dead! 


302  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

Jtd.  —  And  wliat  reward  do  you  propose  ? 
It  must  be  my  love. 

2'Ae  Double  Marriage. 

While   tliese   events,    dark,    hurried,    and   stormy,    had 
befallen  the   family  of  his   betrothed,    Sidney  had   con- 
tinued his   calm  life  by  the   banks   of  the   lovely  lake. 
After  a  few  weeks   his    confidence  in  Camilla's  fidelity 
overbore   all    his  apprehensions    and    forebodings.      Her 
letters,   though   constrained  by  the   inspection   to  which 
they   were    submitted,    gave    him   inexpressible    consola- 
tion and  delight.     He  began,   however,    early  to  fancy 
that   there   was   a   change   in   their   tone.     The   letters 
seemed  to  shun   the   one   subject   to   which   all   others 
were   as   nought;   they  turned  rather  upon   the   guests 
assembled  at  Beaufort  Court ;  and  why  I  know  not,  — 
for  there  was  nothing  in  them  to  authorize  jealousy,  — 
the    brief   words   devoted    to    Monsieur   de    Vaudemont 
filled    him    with    uneasy    and    terrible    suspicion.        He 
gave  vent  to  these  feelings,   as  fully  as  he   dared   do, 
under    the   knowledge    that    his    letter   would   be   seen; 
antl   Camilla  never  again  even   mentioned  the  name  of 
Vaudemont.      Then  there  was  a   long  pause;   then   her 
brother's  arrival  and  illness  were   announced;  then,   at 
intervals,    but  a   few   hurried   lines;   then   a   complete, 
long,    dreadful    silence;   and  lastly,   with  a    deep  black 
border   and   a   solemn   black   seal,    came   the    following 
letter  from   Mr.   Beaufort :  — 


NIGHT   AND   MOKXIXG,  303 

My  dear  Sir,  —  I  have  the  unutterable  grief  to  announce 
to  you  and  your  Avorthy  uncle  the  irreparable  loss  I  have  sus- 
tained in  the  death  of  my  only  son.  It  is  a  month  to-day 
since  he  departed  this  life.  He  died,  sir,  as  a  Christian  should 
die  :  humbly,  penitently,  —  exagLjerating  the  few  faults  of  his 
short  life,  but  [and  here  the  writer's  hypocrisy,  though  so 
natural  to  him  —  ^vas  it,  that  he  knew  not  that  he  was  hypo- 
critical ? —  fairly  gave  way  before  the  real  and  human  anguish 
for  which  there  is  no  dictionary!]  —  but  I  cannot  pursue 
this  theme  I 

Slowly  now  awakening  to  the  duties  yet  left  me  to  dis- 
charge, I  cannot  but  be  sensible  of  the  material  difference  in 
the  prospects  of  my  remaining  child.  Miss  Beaufort  is  now 
the  heiress  to  an  ancient  name  and  a  large  fortune.  She  sub- 
sciibes  with  me  to  the  necessity  of  consulting  those  new  con- 
siderations which  so  melancholy  an  event  forces  upon  her 
mind.  The  little  i'ancy,  or  liking  (the  acijuaintance  was  too 
short  for  more)  that  might  naturally  spring  up  between  two 
amiable  young  persons  thrown  together  in  the  country,  must 
be  banished  from  our  thoughts.  As  a  friend,  I  shall  be  alwaj's 
happy  to  hear  of  your  welfare  ;  and  should  you  ever  think  of 
a  profession  in  which  I  can  serve  you,  you  may  command  my 
utmost  interest  and  exertions.  I  know,  my  young  friend, 
what  you  will  feel  at  first,  and  how  disposed  you  will  be  to 
call  me  mercenary  and  selfish.  Heaven  knows  if  that  be  really 
my  character  !  But  at  your  age,  impressions  are  easily  effaced; 
and  aiiy  experienced  friend  of  the  world  will  assure  you  that, 
in  the  altered  circumstances  of  the  case,  I  have  no  option. 
All  intercourse  and  correspondence,  of  course,  cease  with  this 
letter,  —  until,  at  least,  we  may  all  meet,  with  no  sentiments 
but  tliose  of  friendship  and  esteem.  I  desire  my  compliments 
to  your  worthy  uncle,  in  which  Mrs.  and  Miss  Beaufort  join  ; 
and  I  am  sure  you  will  be  happy  to  hear  that  my  wife  and 
daughter,  though  still  in  great  affliction,  have  suffered  less  in 
health  than  I  could  have  ventured  to  anticipate. 
Believe  me,  dear  sir,  yours  sincerely, 

Robert  Beaufort. 
To  C.  Spencer,  Esq.,  Juu. 


304  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

Wlien  Sidney  received  this  letter,  he  was  with  Mr. 
Spencer,  and  the  latter  read  it  over  the  young  man's 
shoulder,  on  which  he  leaned  affectionately.  When  they 
came  to  the  concluding  words,  Sidney  turned  round  with 
a  vacant  look  and  a  hollow  smile.  "You  see,  sir,"  he 
said,  —  "  you  see  —  " 

"  My  hoy,  my  son,  you  hear  this  as  you  ought.  Con- 
tempt will  soon  efface  —  " 

Sidney  started  to  his  feet,  and  his  whole  countenance 
was  changed. 

"  Contempt !  —  yes,  for  him  !  But  for  her,  —  she 
knows  it  not,  she  is  no  party  to  this;  I  cannot  believe 
it, —  I  will  not!  I  —  I — "  and  he  rushed  out  of  the 
room.  He  was  absent  till  nightfall,  and  when  he  re- 
turned, he  endeavored  to  appear  calm,  —  but  it  was  in 
vain. 

The  next  day  brought  him  a  letter  from  Camilla, 
written  unknown  to  her  parents,  short,  it  is  true  (con- 
firming the  sentence  of  separation  contained  in  her 
father's),  and  imploring  him  not  to  reply  to  it;  but 
still  so  full  of  gentle  and  of  sorrowful  feeling,  so  evi- 
dently worded  in  the  wish  to  soften  the  anguish  she 
inflicted,  that  it  did  more  than  soothe,  —  it  even  admin- 
istered liope. 

Now,  when  Mr.  E-obert  Beaufort  had  recovered  the 
ordinary  tone  of  his  mind,  sufficiently  to  indite  the 
letter  Sidney  had  just  read,  he  had  become  fully  sensible 
of  the  necessity  of  concluding  the  marriage  between 
Philip  and  Camilla,  before  the  publicity  of  the  law-suit. 
The  action  for  the  ejectment  could  not  take  place  before 
the  ensuing  March  or  April.  He  would  waive  the  ordi- 
nary etiquette  of  time  and  mourning  to  arrange  all  before. 
Indeed  he  lived  in  liourly  fear  lest  Philip  should  dis- 
cover that  he  had  a  rival  in  his  brother,  and  break  off 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  305 

the  marriage,  with  its  contingent  advantages.  The  first 
aiinouncenient  of  such  a  suit  in  the  newspapers  might 
reach  the  Spencers;  and  if  the  young  man  were,  as  he 
douljted  not,  Sidney  Beaufort,  would  necessarily  bring 
liim  forward,  and  insure  the  dreaded  explanation.  Thus 
apprehensive  and  ever  scheming,  Robert  Beaufort  spoke 
to  Philip  so  much,  and  with  such  apparent  feeling,  of 
his  wish  to  gratify,  at  the  earliest  possible  period,  the 
last  wish  of  his  son,  in  the  union  now  arranged.  He 
spoke,  with  such  seeming  consideration  and  good  sense, 
of  the  avoidance  of  all  scandal  and  misinterpretation  in 
the  suit  itself,  which  suit  a  previous  marriage  between 
the  claimant  and  his  daugliter  would  show  at  once  to  be 
of  so  amicable  a  nature,  that  Philip,  ardently  in  love  as 
he  was,  coiild  not  but  assent  to  any  hastening  of  his 
expected  happiness  compatible  with  decorum.  As  to 
any  previous  publicity  by  way  of  newspaper  comment, 
he  agreed  with  Mr.  Beaufort  in  deprecating  it.  But 
then  came  the  question,  what  name  was  he  to  bear  in 
the  interval  1 

"  As  to  that, "  said  Philip,  somewhat  proudly,  "  when, 
after  my  mother's  suit  in  her  own  behalf,  I  persuaded 
her  not  to  bear  the  name  of  Beaufort,  though  her  due, 
—  and  for  my  own  part,  I  prized  her  own  modest  name, 
which  under  such  dark  appearances  was  in  reality  spot- 
less, as  much  as  the  loftier  one  which  you  bear  and  my 
father  bore,  —  so,  I  shall  not  resume  the  name  the  law 
denies  me  till  the  law  restores  it  to  me.  Law  alone  can 
efface  the  wrong  which  law  has  done  me. " 

Mr.  Beaufort  was  pleased  with  this  reasoning  (errone- 
ous though  it  was),  and  he  now  hoped  that  all  would  be 
safely  arranged. 

That  a  girl  so  situated  as  Camilla,  and  of  a  character 
not  energetic  or  profound,  but  submissive,  dutiful,  and 
VOL.  II.  —  20 


306  NIGHT    AND    MOIINING. 

timiil,  slinuld  yield  to  the  arguments  of  her  father,  the 
desire  of  her  dying  brotlier ;  that  she  should  not  dare  to 
refuse  to  become  the  instrument  of  peace  to  a  divided 
family,  the  saving  sacrifice  to  her  father's  endangered 
fortunes;  that,  in  fine,  when  nearly  a  month  after 
Arthur's  death,  her  father,  leading  her  into  the  room 
where  Philip  waited  her  footstep  with  a  beating  heart, 
placed  her  hand  in  his,  and  Philip,  falling  on  his 
knees,  said,  "  May  I  hope  to  retain  this  hand  for  life  1  " 
she  should  falter  out  such  words  as  he  might  construe 
into  not  reluctant  acquiescence, —  that  all  this  should 
happen  is  so  natural  that  the  reader  is  already  prepared 
for  it.  But  still  she  thought  with  bitter  and  remorseful 
feelings  of  him  thus  deliberately  and  faithlessly  re- 
nounced. She  felt  how  deeply  he  had  loved  her;  she 
knew  how  fearful  would  be  his  grief.  She  looked  sad 
and  thoughtful ;  but  her  brother's  death  was  siifficient 
in  Philip's  eyes  to  account  for  that.  The  praises  and 
gratitude  of  her  father,  to  whom  she  suddenly  seemed 
to  become  an  object  of  even  greater  pride  and  affection 
than  ever  Arthur  had  been ;  the  comfort  of  a  generous 
heart,  that  takes  pleasure  in  the  very  sacrifice  it  makes ; 
the  acquittal  of  her  conscience  as  to  the  motives  of  her 
conduct,  began,  however,  to  produce  their  effect.  Nor, 
as  she  had  lately  seen  more  of  Philip,  could  she  be 
insensible  of  his  attachment,  of  his  many  noble  qualities, 
of  the  pride  which  most  women  might  have  felt  in  his 
addresses,  when  his  rank  was  once  made  clear;  and  as 
she  had  ever  been  of  a  character  more  regulated  by  duty 
than  passion,  so  one  who  could  have  seen  what  was  pass- 
ing in  her  mind  would  have  had  little  fear  for  Philip's 
future  happiness  in  her  keeping,  —  little  fear  but  that, 
when  once  married  to  him,  her  affections  would  have 
gone  along  with  her  duties;  and  that  if  the  first  love 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  307 

were  yet  recalled,  it  would  be  with  a  sigh  due  rather  to 
some  romantic  recollection  than  some  contmued  regret. 
Few  of  either  sex  are  ever  united  to  their  first  love ;  yet 
married  people  jog  on,  and  call  each  other  "  my  dear  " 
and  "  my  darling  "  all  the  same!  It  might  be,  it  is  true, 
that  Philip  would  be  scarcely  loved  with  the  intenseuess 
with  which  he  loved;  but  if  Camilla's  feelings  were 
capable  of  corresponding  to  the  ardent  and  impassioned 
ones  of  that  strong  and  vehement  nature,  such  feelings 
were  not  yet  developed  in  her :  the  heart  of  the  woman 
might  still  be  half  concealed  in  the  veil  of  the  virgin 
innocence.  Philip  himself  was  satisfied, —  he  believed 
that  he  was  beloved ;  for  it  is  the  property  of  love,  in  a 
large  and  noble  heart,  to  reflect  itself,  and  to  see  its  own 
image  in  the  eyes  on  which  it  looks.  As  the  poet  gives 
ideal  beauty  and  excellence  to  some  ordinary  child  of 
Eve,  worshipping  less  the  being  that  is,  than  the  being 
he  imagines  and  conceives,  so.  Love,  which  makes  vis 
all  poets  for  a  while,  throws  its  own  divine  light  over  a 
heart  perhaps  really  cold,  and  becomes  dazzled  into  the 
joy  of  a  false  belief  by  the  very  lustre  with  which  it  sur- 
rounds its  object. 

The  more,  however,  Camilla  saw  of  Philip,  the  more 
(gradually  overcoming  her  former  mysterious  and  super- 
stitious awe  of  him)  she  grew  familiarized  to  his  peculiar 
cast  of  character  and  thought,  so  the  more  she  began  to 
distrust  her  father's  assertion  that  he  had  insisted  on  her 
hand  as  a  price,  a  bargain,  an  equivalent  for  the  sacrifice 
of  a  dire  revenge.  And  with  this  thought  came  another. 
Was  she  worthy  of  this  man  1  —  was  she  not  deceiving 
him  1  Ouglit  she  not  to  say,  at  least,  that  she  had  known 
a  previous  attachment,  however  determined  she  might  be 
to  subdue  it?  Often  the  desire  for  this  just  and  honor- 
able confession  trembled  on  her  lips,  and  as  often  was  it 


308  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

checked  by  some  cliance  circumstance  or  some  maiden 
fear.  Despite  tlieir  connection,  there  was  not  yet 
between  them  that  delicious  intimacy  which  ought  to 
accompany  the  affiance  of  two  hearts  and  souls.  The 
gloom  of  the  house,  the  restraint  on  the  very  language 
of  love  imposed  by  a  death  so  recent,  and  so  deplored, 
accounted  in  much  for  this  reserve.  And  for  the  rest, 
Robert  Beaufort  prudently  left  them  very  few  and  very 
brief  opportunities  to  be  alone. 

In  the  mean  time  Philip  (now  persuaded  that  the 
Beauforts  were  ignorant  of  his  brother's  fate)  had  set 
Mr.  Barlow's  activity  in  search  of  Sidney ;  and  his  pain- 
ful anxiety  to  discover  one  so  dear  and  so  mysteriously 
lost,  was  the  only  cause  of  vuieasiness  apparent  in  the 
brightening  future.  While  these  researches,  hitherto 
fruitless,  were  being  made,  it  so  happened,  as  London 
began  now  to  refill,  and  gossip  began  now  to  revive,  that 
a  report  got  abroad,  no  one  knew  how  (probably  from  the 
servants),  that  Monsieur  de  Vaudemont,  a  distinguished 
French  officer,  was  shortly  to  lead  the  daughter  and  sole 
heiress  of  Kobert  Beaufort,  Esq.,  M.  P.,  to  the  hymeneal 
altar;  and  that  report  very  quickly  found  its  way  into 
the  London  papers ;  from  the  London  papers  it  spread  to 
the  Provincial;  it  reached  the  eyes  of  Sidney  in  his 
now  gloomy  and  despairing  solitude.  The  day  that  he 
read  it,  he  disappeared. 


NIGHT   AND    MOKNING.  309 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

Jul.  —  Good  lady,  love  him  ! 

You  have  a  noble  and  an  honest  gentleman. 

I  ever  found  him  so. 

Love  him  no  less  than  I  have  done,  and  serve  him, 

And  Heaven  shall  bless  you,  —  you  shall  bless  my  ashes. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  :   The  Double  Marriage. 

We  have  been  too  long  absent  from  Fanny ;  it  is  time  to 
return  to  her.  The  delight  she  experienced  when  Philip 
made  her  understand  all  the  benefits,  the  blessings,  that 
her  courage,  nay,  her  intellect,  had  bestowed  upon  him, 
the  blushing  ecstasy  with  which  she  heard  (as  they 
returned  to  H ,  the  eventful  morning  of  her  deliver- 
ance, side  by  side,  her  hand  clasped  in  his,  and  often 
pressed  to  his  grateful  lips)  his  praises,  his  thanks,  his 
fear  for  her  safety,  his  joy  at  regaining  her,  —  all  this 
amounted  to  a  bliss  which,  till  then,  she  could  not  have 
conceived  that  life  was  capable  of  bestowing.      And  when 

he  left  her  at  H ,  to  hurry  to  his  lawyer's  with  the 

recovered  document,  it  was  but  for  an  hour.  He  returned, 
and  did  not  quit  her  for  several  days.  And  in  that  time 
he  became  sensible  of  her  astonishing,  and,  to  him,  it 
seemed  miraculous  improvement  in  all  that  renders  mind 
the  equal  to  mind,  —  miraculous,  for  he  guessed  not  the 
influence  that  makes  miracles  its  commonplace.  And 
now  he  listened  attentively  to  her  when  she  conversed; 
he  read  with  her  (though  reading  was  never  much  in  his 
vocation),  his  unfastidious  ear  was  charmed  with  her 
voice,  when  it  sang  those  simple  songs;  and  his  man- 
ner (impressed  alike  by  gratitude  for  the  signal  service 


310  NIGHT   AND    MOKXIXG. 

rendered  to  hiiu,  and  by  the  discovery  that  Fanny  Avas 
110  longer  a  child,  -whether  in  mind  or  years),  tliough  not 
less  gentle  than  before,  was  less  familiar,  less  superior, 
more  respectful,  and  more  earnest.  It  was  a  change 
which  raised  her  in  her  own  self-esteem.  Ah,  those  were 
rosy  da3's  for  Fanny  ! 

A  less  sagacious  judge  of  character  than  Lilburne  would 
have  formed  doubts  perhaps  of  the  nature  of  Philip's 
interest  in  Fanny.  But  he  comprehended  at  once  the 
fraternal  interest  which  a  man  like  Philip  might  well 
take  in  a  creature  like  Fanny,  if  commended  to  his  care 
by  a  protector  whose  doom  was  so  awful  as  that  which 
had  engulfed  the  life  of  William  Gawtrey.  Lilburne 
had  some  thoughts  at  first  of  claiming  her ;  but  as  he  had 
no  power  to  compel  her  residence  with  him,  he  did  not 
wish,  on  consideration,  to  come  again  in  contact  with 
Philip  upon  ground  so  full  of  humbling  recollections  as 
that  still  overshadowed  by  tlie  images  of  Gawtrey  and 
Mary.  He  contented  himself  with  writing  an  artful 
letter  to  Simon,  stating  that  from  Fanny's  residence  with 
Mr.  Gawtrey,  and  from  her  likeness  to  her  mother,  whom 
he  had  only  seen  as  a  child,  he  had  conjectured  the 
relationship  she  bore  to  himself;  and,  having  obtained 
other  evidence  of  that  fact  (he  did  not  say  what  or 
where),  he  had  not  scrupled  to  remove  her  to  his  roof, 
meaning  to  explain  all  to  Mr.  Simon  Gawtrey  the  next 
day.  This  letter  was  accompanied  by  one  from  a  lawyer, 
informing  Simon  Gawtrey  that  Lord  Lilburne  would  pay 
£200  a  year,  in  quarterly  payments,  to  his  order;  and 
that  he  was  requested  to  add,  that  when  the  young  lady 
he  had  so  benevolently  reared  came  of  age,  or  married, 
an  adequate  provision  would  be  made  for  her.  Simon's 
mind  blazed  up  at  this  last  intelligence,  when  read  to 
liim,    though    he   neither  comprehended  nor   sought   to 


NIGHT    AND   MORNING.  311 

know  why  Lord  Lill)uriie  should  be  so  generous,  or  Avhat 
that  noble  person's  letter  to  himself  was  intended  to  con- 
vey. For  two  days  he  seemed  restored  to  vigorous 
sense;  but  when  he  had  once  clutched  the  first  payment 
made  in  advance,  the  touch  of  the  money  seemed  to  numb 
him  back  to  his  lethargy :  the  excitement  of  desire  died 
in  the  dull  sense  of  possession. 

And  just  at  that  time  Fanny's  happiness  came  to  a 
close.  Philip  received  Arthur  Beaufort's  letter;  and 
now  ensued  long  and  frequent  absences ;  and  on  his 
return,  for  about  an  hour  or  so  at  a  time,  he  spoke  of 
sorrow  and  death ;  and  the  books  were  closed  and  the 
songs  silenced.  All  fear  for  Fanny's  safety  was,  of 
course,  over;  all  necessity  for  her  work.  Their  little 
establishment  was  increased.  She  never  stirred  out 
without  Sarah ;  yet  she  would  rather  that  tliere  had 
been  some  danger  on  her  account  for  him  to  guard 
against,  or  some  trial  that  his  smile  might  soothe.  His 
prolonged  absences  began  to  prey  upon  her ;  the  books 
ceased  to  interest;  no  study  filled  up  the  dreary  gap; 
her  step  grew  listless;  her  cheek  pale, —  she  was  sensible 
at  last  that  his  presence  had  become  necessary  to  her  very 
life.  One  day  he  came  to  the  house  earlier  than  usual, 
and  with  a  much  happier  and  serener  expression  of 
countenance  than  he  had  worn  of  late. 

Simon  was  dozing  in  his  chair,  with  his  old  dog,  now 
scarce  vigorous  enough  to  bark,  curled  up  at  his  feet. 
Neither  man  nor  dog  was  more  as  a  witness  to  what  was 
spoken  than  the  leathern  chair  or  the  hearth-rug  on 
which  they  severally  reposed. 

There  was  something  which,  in  actual  life,  greatly 
contributed  to  the  interest  of  Fanny's  strange  lot,  but 
which  in  narration,  I  feel  I  cannot  make  sufficiently 
clear  to  the  reader.     And  this  was  her  connection  and 


312  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

residence  with  that  old  man.  Her  character  formincr, 
as  It  is  was  completely  gone;  here,  the  blank  becoming 
tilled,  —  there,  the  page  fading  to  a  blank.  It  was  the 
utter,  total  deathliness-m-life  of  Simon  that,  while  so 
impressive  to  see,  renders  it  impossible  to  bring  liim 
before  the  reader,  in  his  full  force  of  contrast  to  the  young 
Psyche.  He  seldom  spoke,  —  often,  not  from  morning 
till  night;  he  now  seldom  stirred.  It  is  in  vain  to 
describe  the  indescribable ;  let  the  reader  draw  the  pic- 
ture for  himself.  And  whenever  (as  I  sometimes  think 
he  will,  after  he  has  closed  this  book)  he  conjures  up  the 
idea  he  attaches  to  the  name  of  its  heroine,  let  him  see 
before  her,  as  she  glides  through  the  humble  room ;  as 
she  listens  to  the  voice  of  him  she  loves;  as  she  sits  mus- 
ing by  the  window,  with  the  church  spire  just  visible ; 
as  day  by  day  the  soul  brightens  and  expands  within  her, 
—  still  let  the  reader  see  Avithin  the  same  walls,  gray- 
haired,  ])lind,  dull  to  all  feeling,  frozen  to  all  life,  that  stony 
image  of  time  and  death !  Perhaps  then  he  may  under- 
stand why  they  who  beheld  the  real  and  the  living  Fanny 
blooming  under  that  chill  and  mass  of  shadow,  felt  that 
her  grace,  her  simplicity,  her  charming  beauty,  were 
raised  by  the  contrast  till  they  grew  associated  with 
thoughts  and  images,  mysterious  and  profound,  belong- 
ing not  more  to  the  lovely  than  to  the  sublime. 

So  there  sat  the  old  man ;  and  Philip,  though  aware 
of  his  presence,  speaking  as  if  he  were  alone  with  Fanny, 
after  touching  on  more  casual  topics,  thus  addressed 
her:  — 

"  My  true  and  my  dear  friend,  it  is  to  you  that  I  shall 
owe,  not  only  my  rights  and  fortune,  but  tlie  vindication 
of  my  mother's  memory.  You  have  not  only  placed 
flowers  upon  tliat  gravestone,  but  it  is  owing  to  yoii, 
under  Providence,  that  it  will  Ije  inscribed  at  last  with 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  313 

the  name  which  refutes  all  calumny.  Young  and  inno- 
cent as  3'ou  now  are,  my  gentle  and  heloved  lienefactress, 
you  cannot  as  yet  know  what  a  hlessing  it  will  be  to  me 
to  engrave  that  name  upon  that  simple  stone.  Here- 
after, when  you  yourself  are  a  wife,  a  mother,  you  will 
comprehend  the  service  you  have  rendered  to  the  living 
and  the  dead!  " 

He  stopped,  struggling  with  the  rush  of  emotions  that 
overflovved  his  heart.  Alas  the  dead!  what  service 
can  we  render  to  them  ?  —  wliat  availed  it  now,  either 
to  the  dust  below,  or  to  the  immortality  above,  that  the 
fools  and  knaves  of  this  world  should  mention  the 
Catherine  whose  life  was  gone,  whose  ears  were  deaf,  with 
more  or  less  respect  1  Tliere  is  in  calumny  that  poison 
that,  even  when  the  character  throws  off  the  slander,  the 
heart  remains  diseased  beneath  the  effect.  They  .say  that 
truth  comes  sooner  or  later ;  but  it  seldom  comes  before  the 
soul,  passing  from  agony  to  contempt,  has  groAvn  callous 
to  men's  judgments.  Calumniate  a  human  being  in 
youth,  adulate  that  being  in  age:  what  has  been  the 
interval  ?  Will  the  adulation  atone  either  for  the  tor- 
ture, or  the  hardness  which  the  torture  leaves  at  last? 
And  if,  as  in  Catherine's  case  (a  case,  how  common!), 
the  truth  come  too  late,  —  if  the  tomb  is  closed,  if  the 
heart  you  have  wrung  can  be  wrung  no  more,  —  why, 
the  truth  is  as  valueless  as  the  epitaph  on  a  forgotten 
name!  Some  such  conviction  of  the  hollowness  of  his 
own  words,  when  he  spoke  of  service  to  the  dead,  smote 
upon  Philip's  heart,  and  stopped  the  flow  of  his  words. 

Fanny,  conscious  only  of  his  praise,  his  thanks,  and 
the  tender  affection  of  his  voice,  stood  still  silent,  her 
eyes  downcast,   her  breast  heaving. 

Philip  resumed,  — 

"  And  now,  Fanny,  my  honored  sister,  I  would  thank 


314  NIGHT    AND   MORNING. 

you  for  more,  were  it  possible,  even  than  tliis.  I  shall 
owe  to  you  not  only  name  and  fortune,  but  happiness. 
It  is  from  the  rights  to  which  you  have  assisted  me,  and 
wliich  will  shortly  be  made  clear,  that  I  am  enabled  to 
demand  a  hand  I  have  long  coveted,  —  the  hand  of  one 
as  dear  to  me  as  you  are.  In  a  word,  the  time  has,  this 
day,  been  fixed,  when  I  shall  have  a  home  to  offer  to 
you  and  to  this  old  man ;  when  I  can  present  to  you  a 
sister  who  will  prize  you  as  I  do:  for  I  love  you  so  dearly, 
—  I  owe  you  so  much  that  even  that  home  would  lose 
half  its  smiles  if  you  were  not  there.  Do  you  under- 
stand  me,  Fanny?     The  sister  I  speak   of  will  be   my 

wife : " 

The  poor  girl  who  heard  this  speech  of  most  cruel 
tenderness  did  not  fall,  or  faint,  or  evince  any  outward 
emotion,  except  in  a  deadly  paleness.  She  seemed  like 
one  turned  to  stone.  Her  very  breath  forsook  her  for 
some  moments,  and  then  came  back  with  a  long  deep 
sigh,  she  laid  her  hand  lightly  upon  his  arm,  and  said 
calmly, — 

"Yes, —  T  understand.  We  once  saw  a  wedding. 
You  are  to  be  married, —  I  shall  see  yours!" 

"  You  shall ;  and  later,  perhaps,  I  may  see  your  own. 
I  have  a  brother.  Ah !  if  I  could  but  find  him :  youn- 
ger than  I  am, —  beautiful  almost  as  you!  " 

"  You  will  be  happy, "  .said  Fanny,  still  calmly. 

"  T  liave  long  placed  my  hojies  of  happiness  in  such  a 
union!     Stay,  where  are  you  going?  " 

"To  pray  for  you,"  .said  Fanny,  with  a  smile  in 
Avhich  there  was  something  of  the  old  vacancy ;  and  she 
walked  gently  from  the  room.  Philip  followed  her 
with  moistened  eyes.  Her  manner  might  have  deceived 
one  more  vain.  He  soon  after  quitted  the  house,  and 
returned  to  town. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  315 

Tliree  hours  after  Sarah  found  Fanny  stretched  on 
the  floor  of  her  own  room,  so  still,  so  white,  that,  for 
some  moments,  the  old  woman  thought  life  was  gone. 
She  recovered,  however,  hy  degrees;  and,  after  putting 
her  hands  to  her  eyes,  and  muttering  some  moments, 
seemed  much  as  usual,  except  that  she  was  more  silent, 
and  that  her  lips  remained  colorless,  and  her  hands  cold 
like  stone. 


316  KIGIIT   A>^D    MORNING. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

Vec.  —  Ye  see  what  follows. 

Duke.  —  (_>li,  gentle  sir !  this  shape  again ! 

The  Chances, 

That  evening  Sidney  Beaufort  arrived  in  London.  It 
is  the  nature  of  solitude  to  make  the  passions  calm  on 
the  surface,  —  agitated  m  the  deeps.  Sidney  had  placed 
liis  whole  existence  in  one  object.  When  the  letter 
arrived  that  told  him  to  hope  no  more,  he  was  at  first 
rather  sensible  of  the  terrible  and  dismal  blank  —  the 
"  void  abyss  "  —  to  which  all  his  future  was  suddenly 
changed,  tlian  roused  to  vehement  and  turbulent  emo- 
tion. But  Camilla's  letter  had,  as  we  have  seen,  raised 
his  courage  and  animated  his  heart.  To  the  idea  of  her 
faitli  he  still  clung  with  the  instinct  of  hope  in  the  midst 
of  despair.  The  tidings  that  she  was  absolutely  betrothed 
to  another,  and  in  so  short  a  time  since  her  rejection  of 
liim,  let  loose  from  all  restraint  his  darker  and  more 
tempestuous  passions.  In  a  state  of  mind  bordering 
upon  frenzy,  he  hurried  to  London,  —  to  seek  her,  to 
see  her;  with  wliat  intent — what  hope,  if  hope  there 
were  —  he  himself  could  scarcely  tell.  But  what  man 
who  has  loved  with  fervor  and  trust,  will  be  contented  to 
receive  the  sentence  of  eternal  separation  except  from  tlie 
very  lips  of  tlie  one  thus  worsliipped  and  thus  forsworn? 
The  day  had  been  intensely  cold.  Towards  evening 
the  snow  fell  fast  and  heavily.  Sidney  hail  not,  since  a 
child,  been  before  in  London ;  and  the  immense  city,  cov- 
ered   with    a    wintry  and   icy   mist,    through  which  the 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  317 

hurrying  passengers  and  the  slow-moving  vehicles  passed, 
spectre-like,  along  the  dismal  and  slippery  streets,  opened 
to  the  stranger  no  hospitable  arms.  He  knew  not  a  step  of 
the  way ;  he  was  pushed  to  and  fro ;  his  scarce  intelligible 
questions  impatiently  answered ;  the  snow  covered  him ; 
the  frost  pierced  to  his  veins.  At  length  a  man,  more 
kindly  than  the  rest,  seeing  that  he  was  a  stranger  to 
London,  procured  him  a  hackney-coach,  and  directed  the 
driver  to  the  distant  quarter  of  Berkeley  Square.  The 
snow  balled  under  the  hoofs  of  the  horses,  the  groan- 
ing vehicle  proceeded  at  the  pace  of  a  hearse.  At  length, 
and  after  a  period  of  such  suspense  and  such  emotion  as 
Sidney  never  in  after-life  could  recall  without  a  shudder, 
the  coach  stopped ;  the  benumbed  driver  heavily  de- 
scended; the  sound  of  the  knocker  knelled  loud  through 
the  muffled  air,  and  the  light  from  Mr.  Beaufort's  hall 
glared  full  upon  the  dizzy  eyes  of  the  visitor.  He  pushed 
aside  the  porter,  and  sprung  into  the  hall.  Luckily,  one 
of  the  footmen  who  had  attended  Mrs.  Beaiifort  to  the 
Lakes  recognized  him,  and  in  answer  to  his  breathless 
inquiry,  said,  — 

"  Wliy,  indeed,  Mr.  Spencer,  Miss  Beaufort  is  at 
home,  —  upstairs  in  the  drawing-room,  with  master  and 
mistress  and  Monsieur  de  Vaudemont ;  but  —  " 

Sidney  waited  no  more.  He  bounded  up  the  stairs, 
he  opened  the  first  door  that  presented  itself  to  him,  and 
burst  unannounced  and  unlooked  for  upon  the  eyes  of 
the  group  seated  within.  He  saw  not  the  terrified  start 
of  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort ;  he  heeded  not  the  faint,  nervous 
exclamation  of  the  mother ;  he  caught  not  the  dark  and 
wondering  glance  of  the  stranger  seated  beside  Camilla, 
—  he  saw  but  Camilla  herself,  and  in  a  moment  he  was 
at  her  feet. 

"Camilla,  I  am  here! — I  who  love  you  so,  — I  who 


318  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

have  nothing  in  the  Avorld  hut  you !  I  am  here  to  learn 
from  you,  and  you  alone,  if  I  am  indeed  abandoned,  —  if 
you  are  indeed  to  be  another's!  " 

He  had  dashed  his  hat  from  his  hrow  as  he  sprang 
forward ;  his  long,  fair  hair,  damp  with  tlie  snows,  fell 
disordered  over  his  forehead ;  his  eyes  were  fixed,  as  for 
life  and  death,  upon  the  pale  face  and  trembling  lips  of 
Camilla.  Rol)ert  Beaufort,  in  great  alarm,  and  well 
aware  of  the  fierce  temper  of  Philip,  anticipative  of  some 
rash  and  violent  impulse,  turned  his  glance  xipon  his 
destined  son-in-law.  But  there  was  no  angry  pride  in 
the  countenance  he  there  beheld.  Philip  had  risen,  but 
his  frame  was  bent,  his  knees  knocked  together,  his  lips 
were  parted,  his  eyes  were  staring  full  upon  the  face  of 
the  kneeling  man. 

Suddenly  Camilla,  sharing  her  father's  fear,  herself 
half  rose,  and  with  an  unconscious  pathos  stretched  one 
hand,  as  if  to  shelter,  over  Sidney's  head,  and  looked  to 
Philip.  Sidney's  eyes  followed  hers.  He  sprang  to  his 
feet. 

"What,  then,  it  is  true!  And  this  is  the  man  for 
whom  I  am  abandoned !  But  unless  you  —  1/ou,  with  your 
own  lips,  tell  me  that  you  love  me  no  more,  that  you 
love  another,  —  I  Avill  not  yield  you  but  with  life." 

He  stalked  sternly  and  impetuously  up  to  Philip, 
who  recoiled  as  his  rival  advanced.  The  characters  of 
the  two  men  seemed  suddenly  changed.  The  timid 
dreamer  seemed  dilated  into  the  fearless  soldier:  the 
soldier  seemed  shrinking  —  quailing  —  into  nameless 
terror.  Sidney  grasped  that  strong  arm,  as  Philip  still 
retreated,  with  his  slight  and  delicate  fingers,  —  grasped 
it  with  violence  and  menace,  and  frowning  into  the  face 
from  which  the  swarthy  blood  was  scared  away,  said,  in 
a  hollow  whi.^per,  — 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  319 

"  Do  you  hear  me  1  Do  you  comprehend  me  ?  I  say 
that  she  shall  not  be  forced  into  a  marriage  at  which  I 
yet  believe  her  heart  rebels.  INly  claim  is  holier  than 
yours.     Renounce  her,  or  win  her  but  with  my  blood." 

Philip  did  not  apparently  hear  the  words  thus 
addressed  to  him.  His  whole  senses  seemed  absorbed 
in  the  one  sense  of  sight.  He  continued  to  gaze  upon 
the  speaker,  till  his  eye  dropped  on  the  hand  that  yet 
griped  his  arm.  And  as  he  thus  looked,  he  uttered  an 
inartic^ilate  cry.  He  caught  the  hand  in  his  own,  and 
pointed  to  a  ring  on  tlie  finger,  but  remained  speechless. 
IMr.  Beaufort  approached,  and  began  some  stammered 
words  of  soothing  to  Sidney ;  but  Philip  motioned  him 
to  be  silent,  and  at  last,  as  if  by  a  violent  effort,  gasped 
forth,  not  to  Sidney,  but  to  Beaufort, — 

"  His  name,  —  his  name  1  " 

"It  is  Mr.  Spencer,  —  j\[r.  Charles  Spencer,"  cried 
Beaufort.      "Listen  to  me,  I  will  explain  all,  I  —  " 

**  Hush,  hush!  "  cried  Philip;  and  turning  to  Sidney, 
he  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  looking  him  full 
in  the  face,  said,  — 

"  Have  you  not  known  another  name  1  Are  you  not 
—  yes,  it  is  so;  it  is,  it  is!     Follow   me,  —  follow!" 

And  still  retaining  his  grasp,  and  leading  Sidney, 
who  was  now  subdued,  awed,  and  a  prey  to  new  and 
wild  suspicions,  he  moved  on  gently,  stride  by  stride, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  that  fair  face,  his  lips  muttering,  till 
the  closing  door  shut  both  forms  from  the  eyes  of  the 
three  there  left. 

It  Avas  the  adjoining  room  into  which  Philip  led  his 
rival.  It  was  lit  but  by  a  small  reading-lamp,  and  the 
bright,  steady  blaze  of  the  fire;  and  by  this  light  they 
both  continued  to  gaze  on  each  other,  as  if  spell -bound, 
in  complete  silence.     At  last  Philip,  by  an  irresistible 


320  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

impulse,  fell  upon  Sidney's  bosom,  and  clasping  him 
with  convulsive  energy,  gasped  out, — 

"  Sidney !  —  Sidney !  —  my  mother's  son !  " 

"What!"  exclaimed  Sidney,  struggling  from  the 
embrace,  and  at  last  freeing  himself,  "it  is  you,  then! 
—  you,  my  own  brother!  You,  who  have  been  hitherto 
the  thorn  in  my  path,  the  cloud  in  my  fate!  You,  who 
are  now  come  to  make  me  a  wretch  for  life!  I  love  that 
woman,  and  you  tear  her  from  me!  You,  who  subjected 
my  infancy  to  hardship,  and,  but  for  Providence,  might 
have  degraded  my  youth,  by  your  example,  into  shame 
and  guilt!  " 

"Forbear! — forbear!"  cried  Philip,  with  a  voice  so 
shrill  in  its  agony  that  it  smote  the  hearts  of  those  in 
the  adjoining  chamber  like  the  shriek  of  some  despairing 
soul.  They  looked  at  each  other,  but  not  one  had  the 
courage  to  break  upon  the  interview. 

Sidney  himself  was  appalled  by  the  sound.  He  threw 
himself  on  a  seat,  and,  overcome  by  passions  so  new  to 
him,  by  excitement  so  strange,  hid  his  face,  and  sobbed 
as  a  child. 

Philip  walked  rapidly  to  and  fro  the  room  for  some 
moments;  at  length  he  paused  opposite  to  Sidney  and 
said,  with  the  deep  calmness  of  a  wronged  and  goaded 
spirit,  — 

"  Sidney  Beaufort,  hear  me!  When  my  mother  died, 
she  confided  you  to  my  care,  ray  love,  and  my  protection. 
In  the  last  lines  that  her  hand  traced,  she  bade  me  think 
less  of  myself  than  of  you;  to  be  to  you  as  a  father,  as 
well  as  brother.  The  hour  that  I  read  that  letter  I  fell 
on  my  knees  and  vowed  that  I  would  fulfil  that  injunc- 
tion, —  that  I  would  sacrifice  my  very  self,  if  I  could 
give  fortune  or  happiness  to  you.  And  this  not  for  your 
sake   alone,    Sidney;     no!    but    as    ray  raother,  —  our 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  321 

wronged,  our  belied,  our  broken-hearted  mother!  —  0 
Sidney,  Sidney !  have  you  no  tears  for  her  too  ?  "  He 
passed  his  hand  over  his  own  eyes  for  a  moment,  and 
resumed:  "But  as  our  mother,  in  that  last  letter,  said 
to  me,  '  Let  my  love  pass  into  your  breast  for  him,' 
30,  Sidney,  so,  in  all  that  I  could  do  for  you,  I  fancied 
that  my  mother's  smile  looked  down  upon  me,  and  that 
in  serving  you  it  was  my  mother  whom  I  obeyed.  Per- 
haps, hereafter,  Sidney,  when  we  talk  over  that  period  of 
my  earlier  life  when  I  worked  for  you,  when  the  degrada- 
tion you  speak  of  (there  was  no  crime  in  it!)  was  borne 
cheerfully  for  your  sake,  and  yours  the  holiday  though 
mine  the  task,  —  perhaps,  hereafter,  you  will  do  me 
more  justice.  You  left  me,  or  were  reft  from  me,  and 
I  gave  all  the  little  fortune  that  my  mother  had  be- 
queathed us,  to  get  some  tidings  from  you.  I  received 
your  letter,  —  that  bitter  letter,  —  and  I  cared  not  then 
that  I  was  a  beggar,  since  I  was  alone.  You  talk  of 
what  I  have  cost  you,  —  you  talk !  —  and  you  now  ask 
me  to  —  to — merciful  Heaven!  let  me  understand 
you, — do  you  love  Camilla?  Does  she  love  you? 
Speak,  speak, —  explain:  what  new  agony  awaits 
me  1" 

It  was  then  that  Sidney,  affected  and  humbled,  amidst 
all  his  more  selfish  sorrows,  by  his  brother's  language 
and  manner,  related,  as  succinctly  as  he  could,  the 
history  of  his  affection  for  Camilla,  the  circumstances 
of  their  engagement,  and  ended  by  placing  before  him 
the  letter  he  had  received  from  Mr.  Beaufort. 

In  spite  of  all  his  efforts  for  self-control,  Philip's 
anguish  was  so  great,  so  visible,  that  Sidney,  after 
looking  at  his  working  features,  his  trembling  hands, 
for  a  moment,  felt  all  the  earthlier  parts  of  his  nature 
melt  in  a  flow  of  generous  sympathy  and  remorse.     He 

VOL.  II.  —  21 


322  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

flung  himself  on  the  breast  from  wliich  he  had  shrunk 
before,  and  cried, — 

"Brother,  brother!  forgive  me;  I  see  how  I  have 
wronged  you.  If  she  has  forgotten  me,  if  she  love  you, 
take  her,  and  be  happy!  " 

Philip  returned  his  embrace,  but  without  warmth,  and 
then  moved  away,  and  again,  in  great  disorder,  paced 
the  room.  His  brother  only  heard  disjointed  exclama- 
tions that  seemed  to  escape  him  unawares:  "They  said 
she  loved  me!  Heaven  give  me  strength!  Mother, 
mother!  let  me  fulfil  my  vow!  Oh,  that  I  had  died  ere 
this!"  He  stopped  at  last,  and  the  large  dews  rolled 
down  his  forehead. 

"  Sidney!  "  said  he,  "  there  is  a  mystery  here  that  I 
comprehend  not.  But  my  mind  now  is  very  confused. 
If  she  loves  you  —  if!  —  is  it  possible  for  a  woman  to 
love  two?  Well,  well,  I  go  to  solve  the  riddle:  wait 
here!" 

He  vanished  into  the  next  room,  and  for  nearly  half 
an  hour  Sidney  was  alone.  He  heard  through  the 
partition  murmured  voices ;  he  caught  more  clearly  the 
sound  of  Camilla's  sobs.  The  particulars  of  that  inter- 
view between  Philip  and  Camilla,  alone  at  first  (after- 
wards Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  was  re-admitted),  Philip 
never  disclosed;  nor  could  Sidney  himself  ever  obtain 
a  clear  account  from  Camilla,  who  could  not  recall  it, 
even  years  after,  without  great  emotion.  But  at  last 
the  door  was  opened,  and  I'hilip  entered,  leading  Camilla 
by  the  hand.  His  face  was  calm,  and  there  was  a  smile 
on  his  lips;  a  greater  dignity  than  even  that  habitual  to 
him  was  diffused  over  his  whole  person.  Camilla  was 
holding  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  and  weeping 
passionately.  Mr.  Beaufort  followed  them  with  a 
mortified  and  slinking  air. 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  323 

"  Sidney,"  said  Philip,  "  it  is  past.  All  is  arranged. 
I  yield  to  your  earlier,  and  therefore  better  claim.  Mr. 
Beaufort  consents  to  your  union.  He  will  tell  you,  at 
some  fitter  time,  that  our  birthright  is  at  last  made  clear, 
and  that  there  is  no  blot  on  the  name  we  shall  hereafter 
bear.     Sidney,  embrace  your  bride!  " 

Amazed,  delighted,  and  still  half-incredulous,  Sidney 
seized  and  kissed  the  hand  of  Camilla;  and  as  he  then 
drew  her  to  his  breast,  she  said,  as  she  pointed  to 
Philip,— 

"Oh!  if  you  do  love  me  as  you  say,  see  in  him  the 
generous,  the  noble  —  "  Fresh  sobs  broke  off  her 
speech,  but  as  Sidney  sought  again  to  take  her  hand, 
she  whispered,  with  a  touching  and  womanly  sentiment, 
"Ah!  respect  him  :  see  —  "  and  Sidney,  looking  then  at 
his  brother,  saw  that  though  he  still  attempted  to  smile, 
his  lip  writhed,  and  his  features  were  drawn  together,  as 
one  whose  frame  is  wrung  by  torture  but  who  struggles 
not  to  groan. 

He  flew  to  Philip,  who,  grasping  his  hand,  held  him 
back,  and  said,  — 

"  I  have  fulfilled  my  vow!  I  have  given  you  up  the 
only  blessing  my  life  has  known.  Enough!  you  are 
happy,  and  I  shall  be  so  too,  when  God  pleases  to  soften 
this  blow.  And  now  you  must  not  wonder  or  blame  me, 
if,  though  so  lately  found,  I  leave  you  for  a  while.  Do 
me  one   kindness, — you,  Sidney,  you,  Mr.    Beaufort. 

Let  the  marriage  take  place  at  H ,  in   the   village 

church  by  which  my  mother  sleeps;  let  it  be  delayed 
till  the  suit  is  terminated;  by  that  time  I  shall  hope  to 
meet  you  all,  —  to  meet  you,  Camilla,  as  I  ought  to  meet 
my  brother's  wife  :  till  then,  my  presence  will  not  sadden 
your  happiness.  Do  not  seek  to  see  me ;  do  not  expect 
to  hear  from    me.     Hist!    be   silent,   all   of  you;    my 


324  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

heart  is  yet  bruised  and  sore.  0  Thou,"  and  here, 
deepening  his  voice,  he  raised  his  arms,  —  "  Thou,  whc 
hast  preserved  my  youth  from  such  snares  and  such 
peril,  who  hast  guided  my  steps  from  the  abyss  to  which 
they  Avandered,  and  beneath  whose  hand  I  now  bow, 
grateful  if  chastened,  receive  this  offering,  and  bless 
that  imiou!     Fare  ye  well." 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  325 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Heaven's  airs  amid  the  harpstrings  dwell; 

And  we  wish  they  ne'er  may  fade. 
They  cease  ,  and  the  soul  is  a  silent  cell, 

Where  music  never  played. 
Dream  follows  dream  through  the  long  night-hours. 

Wilson  :  The  Past,  a  poem. 

The  self-command  which  Philip  had  obtained  for  a 
while,  deserted  him  when  he  was  without  the  house. 
His  mind  felt  broken  up  into  chaos;  he  hurried  on 
mechanically  on  foot ;  he  passed  street  upon  street,  now 
solitary  and  deserted,  as  the  lamps  gleamed  upon  the 
thick  snow.  The  city  was  left  behind  him.  He  paused 
not  till,  breathless,  and  exhausted  in  spirit  if  not  in 
frame,  he  reached  the  churchyard  where  Catherine's  dust 
reposed.  The  snow  had  ceased  to  fall,  but  it  lay  deep 
over  the  graves;  the  yew-trees,  clad  in  their  white 
shrouds,  gleamed  ghost-like  through  the  dimness.  Upon 
the  rail  that  fenced  the  tomb  yet  hung  a  wreath  that 
Fanny's  hand  had  placed  there.  But  the  flowers  were 
hid;  it  was  a  wreath  of  snow!  Through  the  intervals 
of  the  huge  and  still  clouds,  there  gleamed  a  few  melan- 
choly stars.  The  very  calm  of  the  holy  spot  seemed 
unutterably  sad.  The  death  of  the  year  overhung  the 
death  of  man.  And  as  Philip  bent  over  the  tomb, 
within  and  without  all  was  ice  and  night! 

For  hours  he  remained  on  that  spot,  alone  with  his 
grief  and  absorbed  in  his  prayer.  Long  past  midnight 
Fanny  heard  his  step  on  the  stairs,  and  the  door  of  his 


326  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

chamber  close  with  unwonted  violence.  She  heard, 
too,  for  some  time,  his  heavy  tread  on  the  floor,  till 
suddenly  all  was  silent.  The  next  morning  when,  at 
the  usual  hour,  Sarah  entered  to  unclose  the  shutters 
and  light  the  fire,  she  was  startled  by  wild  exclamations 
and  wilder  laughter.  The  fever  had  mounted  to  the 
brain,  —  he  was  delirious. 

For  several  weeks  Philip  Beaufort  was  in  imminent 
danger;  for  a  considerable  part  of  that  time  he  was 
unconscious;  and,  when  the  peril  was  past,  his  recovery 
was  slow  and  gradual.  It  was  the  only  illness  to  which 
his  vigorous  frame  had  ever  been  subjected;  and  the 
fever  had  perhaps  exhausted  him  more  than  it  might 
have  done  one  in  whose  constitution  the  disease  had 
encountered  less  resistance.  His  brother,  imagining  he 
had  gone  abroad,  was  unacquainted  with  his  danger. 
None  tended  his  sick-bed  save  the  hireling  nurse,  the 
fee'd  physician,  and  the  unpurchasable  heart  of  the  only 
being  to  whom  the  wealth  and  rank  of  the  heir  of 
Beaufort  Court  were  as  nothing.  Here  was  reserved 
for  him  fate's  crowning  lesson,  in  the  vanity  of  those 
human  wishes  which  anchor  in  gold  and  power.  For 
how  many  years  had  the  exile  and  the  outcast  pined 
imlignantly  for  his  birthright!  Lo!  it  was  won;  and 
witli  it  came  the  crushed  heart  and  the  smitten  frame. 
As  he  slowly  recovered  sense  and  reasoning,  these 
thoughts  struck  him  forcibly.  He  felt  as  if  he  were 
rightly  punished  in  having  disdained,  during  his  earlier 
youth,  the  enjoyments  within  his  reach.  Was  there 
nothing  in  the  glorious  health,  the  unconquerable  hope, 
the  heart,  if  wrung  and  chafed  and  sorely  tried,  free  at 
least  from  the  direst  anguish  of  the  passions,  disappointed 
and  jealous  love  ?  Though  now  certain,  if  spared  to  the 
future,  to  be  rich,  powerful,  righted  in  name  and  honor, 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  327 

might  he  not  from  that  sick-bed  envy  his  earlier  past  ?  — 
even  when  with  his  brother-orphan  he  wandered  through 
the  solitary  fields,  and  felt  with  what  energies  we  are 
gifted  when  we  have  something  to  protect;  or  when 
loving  and  beloved,  he  saw  life  smile  out  to  him  in  the 
eyes  of  Eugenie;  or  when,  after  that  melancholy  loss, 
he  wrestled  boldly,  and  breast  to  breast  with  fortune,  in 
a  far  land,  for  honor  and  independence  ?  There  is  some- 
thing in  severe  illness,  especially  if  it  be  in  violent 
contrast  to  the  usual  strength  of  the  body,  which  has 
often  the  most  salutary  effect  upon  the  mind;  which 
often,  by  the  affliction  of  the  frame,  roughly  wins  us 
from  the  too  morbid  pains  of  the  heart;  which  makes  us 
feel  that,  in  mere  life,  enjoyed  as  the  robust  enjoy  it, 
God's  great  principle  of  good  breathes  and  moves.  We 
rise  thus  from  the  sick-bed  softened  and  humbled,  and 
more  disposed  to  look  around  us  for  such  blessings  as 
we  may  yet  command. 

The  return  of  Philip,  his  danger,  the  necessity  of 
exertion,  of  tending  him,  had  roused  Fanny  from  a  state 
which  might  otherwise  have  been  permanently  dangerous 
to  the  intellect  so  lately  ripened  within  her.  With 
what  patience,  with  what  fortitude,  with  what  unutter- 
able thought  and  devotion,  she  fulfilled  that  best  and 
holiest  woman's  duty,  let  *he  man  whose  struggle  with 
life  and  death  has  been  blessed  with  the  vigil  that  wakes 
and  saves,  imagine  to  himself.  And  in  all  her  anxiety 
and  terror,  she  had  glimpses  of  a  happiness  which 
it  seemed  to  her  almost  criminal  to  acknowledge.  For, 
even  in  his  delirium,  her  voice  seemed  to  have  some 
soothing  influence  over  him,  and  he  was  calmer  while 
she  was  by.  And  when  at  last  he  was  conscious,  her 
face  was  the  first  he  saw,  and  her  name  the  first  which 
his  lips  uttered.     As  then  he  grew  gradually  stronger. 


328  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

and  tlie  bed  was  deserted  for  the  sofa,  he  took  more  than 
the  old  pleasure  in  hearing  her  read  to  him;  which  she 
did  with  a  feeling  that  lecturers  cannot  teach.  And 
once,  in  a  pause  from  this  occupation,  he  spoke  to  her 
frankly j  he  sketched  his  past  history,  —  his  last 
sacrifice.  And  Fanny,  as  she  wept,  learned  that  he  was 
no  more  another's! 

It  has  been  said  that  this  man,  naturally  of  an  active 
and  impatient  temperament,  had  been  little  accustomed 
to  seek  those  resources  which  are  found  in  books ;  but 
somehow  in  that  sick-chamber  it  was  Fanny's  voice  — 
the  voice  of  her  over  whose  mind  he  had  once  so 
haughtily  lamented  —  that  taught  him  how  much  of  aid 
and  solace  the  herd  of  men  derive  from  the  everlasting 
genius  of  the  few. 

Gradually,  and  interval  by  interval,  moment  by 
moment,  thus  drawn  together,  all  thought  beyond  shut 
out  (for,  however  crushing  for  the  time  the  blow  that 
Lad  stricken  Philip  from  health  and  reason,  he  was  not 
that  slave  to  a  guilty  fancy,  that  he  could  voluntarily 
indulge  —  that  he  would  not  earnestly  seek  to  shun  —  all 
sentiments  that  yet  turned  with  unholy  yearning  towards 
the  betrothed  of  his  brother),  —  gradually,  I  say,  and 
slowly,  came  those  progressive  and  delicious  epochs 
which  mark  a  revolution  in  the  affections:  unspeakable 
gratitude,  brotherly  tenderness,  the  united  strength  of 
compassion  and  respect  that  he  had  felt  for  Fanny 
seemed,  as  he  gained  health,  to  mellow  into  feelings  yet 
more  exquisite  and  deep.  He  could  no  longer  delude 
himself  with  a  vain  and  imperious  belief  that  it  was  a 
defective  mind  that  his  heart  protected ;  he  began  again 
to  be  sensible  to  the  rare  beauty  of  that  tender  face, — 
more  lovely,  perhaps,  for  the  paleness  that  had  replaced 
its  bloom.    The  fancy  that  he  had  so  imperiously  checked 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  329 

before  —  before  he  saw  Camilla,  returned  to  him,  and 
neither  pride  nor  honor  had  now  the  right  to  chase  the 
soft  wings  away.  One  evening,  fancying  himself  alone, 
he  fell  into  a  profound  reverie;  he  awoke  with  a  start, 
and  the  exclamation,  "  Was  it  true  love  that  I  ever  felt 
for  Camilla,  or  a  passion,  a  frenzy,  a  delusion?  " 

His  exclamation  was  answered  by  a  sound  that  seemed 
both  of  joy  and  grief.  He  looked  up,  and  saw  Fanny 
before  him;  the  light  of  the  moon,  just  risen,  fell  full 
on  her  form,  but  her  hands  were  clasped  before  her  face; 
he  heard  her  sob. 

"Fanny,  dear  Fanny!"  he  cried,  and  sought  to 
throw  himself  from  the  sofa  to  lier  feet.  But  she  drew 
herself  away,  and  fled  from  the  chamber  silent  as  a 
dream. 

Philip  rose,  and,  for  the  first  time  since  his  illness, 
walked,  but  with  feeble  steps,  to  and  fro  the  room. 
With  what  different  emotions  from  those  in  which  last, 
in  fierce  and  intolerable  agony,  he  had  paced  that  narrow 
boundary !  Returning  health  crept  through  his  veins,  — 
a  serene,  a  kindly,  a  celestial  joy  circurafused  his  heart. 
Had  the  time  yet  come  when  the  old  Florimel  had 
melted  into  snow ;  when  the  new  and  the  true  one,  with 
its  warm  life,  its  tender  beauty,  its  maiden  wealth  of 
love,  had  risen  before  his  hopes?  He  paused  before  the 
window;  the  spot  within  seemed  so  confined,  the  night 
without  so  calm  and  lovely,  that  he  forgot  his  still- 
clinging  malady,  and  unclosed  the  casement:  the  air 
came  soft  and  fresh  upon  his  temples,  and  the  church- 
tower  and  spire,  for  the  first  time,  did  not  seem  to  him 
to  rise  in  gloom  against  the  heavens.  Even  the  grave- 
stone of  Catherine,  half  in  moonlight,  half  in  shadow, 
appeared  to  him  to  wear  a  smile.  His  mother's  memory 
was  become  linked  with  the  living  Fanny. 


330  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"Thou  art  vindicated,  — thy  Sidney  is  happy,"  he 
murmured:  "  to  her  the  thanks!  " 

Fair  hopes  and  soft  thoughts  busy  within  him,  he 
remained  at  the  casement  till  the  increasing  chill 
warned  him  of  the  danger  he  incurred. 

The  next  day,  when  the  physician  visited  him,  he 
found  the  fever  had  returned.  For  many  days  Philip 
was  again  in  danger, — dull,  unconscious  even  of  the 
step  and  voice  of  Fanny. 

He  woke  at  last  as  from  a  long  and  profound  sleep, — 
woke  so  refreshed,  so  revived,  that  he  felt  at  once  that 
some  great  crisis  had  been  passed,  and  that  at  length 
he  had  struggled  back  to  the  sunny  shores  of  life. 

By  his  bedside  sat  Liancourt,  who,  long  alarmed  at  his 
disappearance,  had  at  last  contrived,  with  the  help  of  jMr. 
Barlow,  to  trace  him  to  Gawtrey's  house,  and  had  for 
several  days  taken  share  in  the  vigils  of  poor  Fanny. 

While  he  was  yet  explaining  all  this  to  Philip,  and 
congratulating  him  on  his  evident  recovery,  the  physi- 
cian entered  to  confirm  the  congratulation.  In  a  few 
days  the  invalid  was  able  to  quit  his  room,  and  nothing 
but  change  of  air  seemed  necessary  for  his  convalescence. 
It  was  then  that  Liancourt,  who  had  for  two  days 
seemed  impatient  to  unburden  himself  of  some  commu- 
nication, thus  addressed  him:  — 

"  My  dear  friend,  I  have  learned,  now,  your  story 
from  Barlow,  who  called  several  times  during  your 
relapse;  and  who  is  the  more  anxious  about  you,  as  the 
time  for  the  decision  of  your  case  now  draws  near. 
The  sooner  you  quit  this  house  the  better." 

"  Quit  this  house !  and  why  1  Is  there  not  one  in  this 
house  to  whom  I  owe  my  fortune  and  my  life  ?  " 

"Yes;  and  for  that  reason  I  say,  *  Go  hence: '  it  is 
the  only  return  you  can  make  her." 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  331 

"  Psliaw!  —  speak  intelligibly." 

"I  will,"  said  Liancourt,  gravely.  "I  have  been  a 
watcher  with  her  by  your  sick-bed,  and  I  know  what 
you  must  feel  already,  —  nay,  I  must  confess  that  even 
the  old  servant  has  ventured  to  speak  to  nie.  You 
have  inspired  that  poor  girl  with  feelings  dangerous  to 
her  peace." 

"Ha!"  cried  Philip,  with  such  joy  that  Liancourt 
frowned,  and  said,  "  Hitherto  I  have  believed  you  too 
honorable  to  —  " 

"So  you  think  she  loves  me?"   interrupted  Philip. 

"Yes;  what  then?  You,  the  heir  of  Beaufort  Court, 
of  a  rental  of  £20,000  a  year,  of  an  historical  name, — 
you  cannot  marry  this  poor  girl  1  " 

"  Well!  —  I  will  consider  what  you  say,  and,  at  all 
events,  I  will  leave  the  house  to  attend  the  result  of  the 
trial.     Let  us  talk  no  more  on  the  subject  now." 

Philip  had  the  penetration  to  perceive  that  Liancourt, 
who  was  greatly  moved  by  the  beauty,  the  innocence, 
and  the  unprotected  position  of  Fanny,  had  not  confined 
caution  to  himself;  that  with  his  characteristic  well- 
meaning  bluntness,  and  with  the  license  of  a  man  some- 
what advanced  in  years,  he  had  spoken  to  Fanny 
herself;  for  Fanny  now  seemed  to  slum  Philip, — her 
eyes  were  heavj^  her  manner  was  embarrassed.  He  saw 
the  change,  but  it  did  not  grieve  him;  he  hailed  the 
omens  which  he  drew  from  it. 

And  at  last  he  and  Liancourt  went.  He  was  absent 
three  weeks,  during  which  time  the  formality  of  the 
friendly  lawsuit  was  decided  in  the  plaintiff's  favor; 
and  the  public  were  in  ecstasies  at  the  noble  and 
sublime  conduct  of  Mr.  Eobert  Beaufort,  v.-ho,  the 
moment  he  had  discovered  a  document  which  he  might 
so  easily  have   buried  forever  in  oblivion,  voluntarily 


332  NIGHT  A^'D   MORNING. 

agreed  to  dispossess  himself  of  estates  he  had  so  long 
enjoyed,  preferring  conscience  to  lucre.  Some  persons 
observed  that  it  was  reported  that  Mr.  Philip  Beaufort 
had  also  been  generous,  —  that  he  had  agreed  to  give  up 
the  estates  for  his  uncle's  life,  and  was  only  in  the 
meanwhile  to  receive  a  fourth  of  the  revenues.  But 
the  universal  comment  was,  **  He  could  not  have  done 
less!  "  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  was,  as  Lord  Lilburne  had 
once  observed,  a  man  who  was  bom,  made,  and  reared 
to  be  spoken  well  of  by  the  world;  and  it  was  a 
comfort  to  him  now,  poor  man!  to  feel  that  his  char- 
acter was  so  highly  estimated.  If  Philip  should  live  to 
the  age  of  one  hundred,  he  will  never  become  so  respect- 
able and  popular  a  man  with  the  crowd  as  his  worthy 
uncle.     But  does  it  much  matter  ? 

Philip   returned   to    H the   eve  before  the  day 

fixed  for  the  marriage  of  his  brother  and  Camilla. 


NIGHT  A^•D   MORNING.  333 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

JtvKTOS,  Aidr}p  re  kui  'H/x* pa  f^fyeyovTo.^  —  Hes. 

The  sun  of  early   May  shone  cheerfully  over  the  quiet 

suburb  of  H .     In  the  thoroughfares  life  was  astir. 

It  was  the  hour  of  noon ,  —  the  hour  at  which  commerce 
is  busy  and  streets  are  full.  The  old  retired  trader, 
eying  wistfully  the  rolling  coach  or  the  oft-passing 
omnibus,  was  breathing  the  fresh  and  scented  air  in  the 
broadest  and  most  crowded  road,  from  which,  afar  in 
the  distance,  rose  the  spires  of  the  metropolis.  The  boy 
let  loose  from  the  day-school  was  hurrying  home  to 
dinner,  his  satchel  on  his  back;  the  ballad-singer  was 
sending  her  cracked  whine  through  the  obscurer  alleys, 
where  the  baker's  boy,  with  puddings  on  his  tray,  and 
the  smart  maid-servant,  despatched  for  porter,  paused 
to  listen.  And  round  the  shops  where  cheap  shawls 
and  cottons  tempted  the  female  eye,  many  a  loitering 
girl  detained  her  impatient  mother,  and  eyed  the  tickets 
and  calculated  her  hard-gained  savings  for  the  Sunday 
gear.  And  in  the  corners  of  the  streets  steamed  the 
itinerant  kitchens  of  the  piemen,  and  rose  the  sharp 
cry,  "  All  hot!  all  hot!  "  in  the  ear  of  infant  and  ragged 
hunger.  And  amidst  them  all  rolled  on  some  lazy  coach 
of  ancient  merchant  or  withered  maiden,  unconscious  of 
any  life  but  that  creeping  through  their  own  languid 
veins.  And  before  the  house  in  which  Catherine  died 
there  loitered  many  stragglers,  gossips  of  the  hamlet, 

^  From  Night,  Sunshine  and  Day  arose ! 


33-4  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

subscribers  to  the  news-room  hard  by,  to  guess  and  spec- 
ulate and  wonder  why,  from  the  church  beliind,  there 
rose  the  merry  peal  of  the  marriage-bell ! 

At  length  along  the  broad  road  leading  from  the  great 
city  there  were  seen  rapidly  advancing  three  carriages 
of  a  very  different  fashion  from  those  familar  to  the 
suburb.  On  they  came;  swiftly  they  whirled  round 
the  angle  that  conducted  to  the  church,  — the  hoofs  of 
the  gay  steeds  ringing  cheerily  on  the  ground,  the  white 
favors  of  the  servants  gleaming  in  the  sun.  Happy  is 
the  bride  the  sun  shines  on!  And  when  the  carriages 
had  thus  vanished,  the  scattered  groups  melted  into 
one  crowd,  and  took  their  way  to  the  church.  They 
stood  idling  without  in  the  burial-ground,  many  of 
them  round  the  fence  that  guarded  from  their  footsteps 
Catherine's  lonely  grave.  All  in  nature  was  glad, 
exhilarating,  and  yet  serene;  a  genial  freshness  breathed 
through  the  soft  air;  not  a  cloud  was  to  be  seen  in 
the  smiling  azure ;  even  the  old  dark  yews  seemed 
happy  in  tlieir  everlasting  verdure.  The  bell  ceased, 
and  then  even  the  crowd  grew  silent;  and  not  a 
sound  was  heard  in  that  solemn  spot  to  whose  demesnes 
are  consecrated  alike  the  birth,  the  marriage,  and  the 
death. 

At  length  there  came  forth  from  tlie  church-door  the 
goodly  form  of  a  rosy  beadle.  Approaching  the  groups, 
he  Avhispered  the  better-dressed  and  commanded  the 
ragged,  remonstrated  with  the  old  and  lifted  his  cane 
again.st  the  young;  and  the  result  of  all  was,  that  the 
churchyard,  not  without  many  a  murmur  and  expostula- 
tion, was  cleared,  and  the  crowd  fell  back  in  the  space 
behind  the  gates  of  the  principal  entrance,  where  they 
swayed  and  gaped  and  chattered  round  the  carriages 
which  were  to  bear  away  the  bridal  party. 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING.  335 

"Within  the  church,  as  the  ceremony  was  now  concluded, 
Philip  Beaufort  conducted,  hand-in-hand,  silently  along 
the  aisle,  his  brother's  wife. 

Leaning  on  his  stick,  his  cold  sneer  upon  his  thin 
lip,  Lord  Lilburne  limped,  step  by  step,  Avith  the  pair, 
though  a  little  apart  from  them,  glancing  from  moment 
to  moment  at  the  face  of  Philip  Beaufort,  where  he  had 
hoped  to  read  a  grief  that  he  could  not  detect.  Lord 
Lilburne  had  carefully  refrained  from  an  interview  with 
Philip  till  that  day,  and  he  now  only  came  to  the 
wedding  as  a  surgeon  goes  to  a  hospital  to  examine 
a  disease  he  had  been  told  would  be  great  and  sore; 
he  was  disappointed.  Close  behind  followed  Sidney, 
radiant  with  joy  and  bloom  and  beauty;  and  his  kind 
guardian,  the  tears  rolling  down  his  eyes,  murmured 
blessings  as  he  looked  upon  him.  Mrs.  Beaufort  had 
declined  attending  the  ceremony,  —  her  nerves  were  too 
weak;  but  behind,  at  a  longer  interval,  came  Robert 
Beaufort,  sober,  staid,  collected  as  ever  to  outAvard 
seeming;  but  a  close  observer  might  have  seen  that  his 
eye  had  lost  its  habitual  complacent  cunning,  that  his 
step  was  more  heavy,  his  stoop  more  joyless.  About 
his  air  there  was  a  something  crestfallen.  The  con- 
sciousness of  acres  had  passed  aAvay  from  his  portly 
presence;  he  was  no  longer  a  possessor,  but  a  pensioner. 
The  rich  man,  who  had  decided  as  he  pleased  on  the 
happiness  of  others,  was  a  cipher;  he  had  ceased  to  have 
any  interest  in  anything.  What  to  him  the  marriage  of 
his  daughter  now  ?  Her  children  would  not  be  the 
heirs  of  Beaufort.  As  Camilla  kindly  turned  round, 
and  through  happy  tears  waited  for  his  approach  to 
clasp  his  hand,  he  forced  a  smile;  but  it  was  sickly  and 
piteous.      He  longed  to  creep  away,  and  be  alone. 

"My  father!  "  said  Camilla,  in  her  sweet  low  voice; 


336  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

and  she  extricated  herself  from  Philip,  and  threw  herself 
on  his  breast. 

"  She  is  a  good  child,"  said  Robert  Beaufort,  vacantly; 
and,  turning  his  dry  eyes  to  the  group,  he  caught  instinc- 
tively at  his  customary  commonplaces,  —  "and,  a  good 
child,  ^Nlr.  Sidney,  makes  a  good  wife!  " 

The  clergyman  bowed  as  if  the  compliment  were 
addressed  to  himself;  he  was  the  only  man  there  whom 
Robert  Beaufort  could  now  deceive. 

"  My  sister,"  said  Philip  Beaufort,  as,  once  more 
leaning  on  his  arm,  they  paused  before  the  church-door, 
"  may  Sidney  love  and  prize  you  as  —  as  I  would  have 
done;  and  believe  me,  both  of  you,  I  have  no  regret, 
no  memory  that  wounds  me  now." 

He  dropped  the  hand,  and  motioned  to  her  father  to 
lead  her  to  the  carriage.  Then  Avinding  his  arm  into 
Sidney's  he  said,  — 

"  Wait  till  they  are  gone :  I  have  one  word  yet  with 
you.     Go  on,  gentlemen." 

The  clergyman  bowed,  and  walked  through  the 
churchyard;  but  Lilburne,  pausing  and  surveying  Philip 
Beaufort,  said  to  him,  whisperinglj'-, — 

"  And  so  much  for  feeling,  — the  folly!  So  much  for 
generosity,  —  the  delusion!     Happy  man!  " 

"  I  am  thoroughly  happy.  Lord  Lilburne." 

"  Are  you  1  Then  it  was  neither  feeling  nor  gener- 
osity ;  and  we  were  taken  in !  Good-day. "  With  that 
he  limped  slowly  to  the  gate. 

Philip  answered  not  the  sarcasm  even  by  a  look;  for 
at  that  moment  a  loud  shout  was  set  up  by  the  mob 
without,  —  tliey  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  bride. 

"Come,  Sidney,  this  way,"  he  said;  "I  must  not 
detain  you  long. " 

Arm-in-arm  they  passed  out  of  the  church ,  and  turned 


NIGHT   AND   MOKNING.  337 

to  the  spot  hard  by,  where  the  flowers  smiled  up  to  them 
from  the  stone  on  their  mother's  grave. 

The  okl  inscription  had  been  elfaced,  and  the  name  of 
Catherine  Beaufort  was  placed  upon  the  stone. 

"Brother,"  said  Philip,  "do  not  forget  this  grave, 
years  hence,  when  children  play  around  your  own 
hearth.  Observe,  the  name  of  Catherine  Beaufort  is 
fresher  on  the  stone  than  the  dates  of  birth  and  death; 
the  name  was  only  inscribed  there  to-day,  — your  v>^ed- 
ding-day!  Ikother,  by  this  grave  we  are  now  indeed 
united." 

"Oh,  Philip!"  cried  Sidney,  in  deep  emotion, 
clasping  the  hand  stretched  out  to  him;  "  I  feel,  I  feel 
how  noble,  how  great  you  are,  —  that  you  have  sacrificed 
more  than  I  dreamed  of  —  " 

"Hush!"  said  Philip,  with  a  smile.  "  Xo  talk  of 
this.  I  am  happier  than  you  deem  me.  Go  back  now, 
—  she  waits  you." 

"  And  you  1     Leave  you !  —  alone !  " 

"Not  alone,"  said  Philip,  pointing  to  the  grave. 

Scarce  had  he  spoken,  when  from  the  gate  came  the 
shrill,  clear  voice  of  Lord  Lilburne, — 

"  We  wait  for  Mr.  Sidney  Beaufort." 

Sidney  passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  wrung  the  hand 
of  his  brother  once  more,  and  in  a  moment  was  by 
Camilla's  side. 

Another  shout,  the  whirl  of  the  wheels,  the  tramp- 
ing of  feet,  the  distant  hum  and  murmur,  and  all  was 
still. 

The  clerk  returned  to  lock  up  the  church ,  —  he  did 
not  observe  where  Philip  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the 
wall,  —  and  went  home  to  talk  of  the  gay  wedding,  and 
inquire  at  what  hour  the  fimeral  of  a  young  woman, 
his  next-door  neighbor,  would  take  place  the  next  day. 
VOL.  n. —  22 


338  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

It  might  be  a  qiiarter  of  an  hour  after  Philip  was  thus 
left,  —  nor  had  he  moved  from  the  spot,  — Avhen  he  felt 
his  sleeve  pulled  gently.  He  turned  round  and  saw 
before  him  the  wistful  face  of  Fanny ! 

"  So  you  would  not  come  to  the  wedding!  "  said  he. 
"  iN'o.     But  I  fancied  you  might  be  here  alone,  —  and 
sad." 

"  And  you  will  not  even  wear  the  dress  I  gave  you  ?  " 
"  Another  time.  Tell  me,  are  you  unhappy  ?  " 
"Unhappy,  Fanny!  No;  look  around.  The  very 
burial-ground  has  a  smile.  See  the  laburnums  clustering 
over  the  wall,  listen  to  the  birds  on  the  dark  yews 
above,  and  yonder  see  even  the  butterfly  has  settled 
upon  her  grave!  —  I  am  not  unhappy."  As  he  thus 
spoke,  he  looked  at  her  earnestly,  and,  taking  both  her 
hands  in  his,  drew  her  gently  towards  him,  and  con- 
tinued: "Fanny,  do  you  remember  that,  leaning  over 
that  gate,  I  once  spoke  to  you  of  the  happiness  of 
marriage  where  two  hearts  are  united?  Nay,  Fanny, 
nay,  I  must  go  on.  It  was  here,  in  this  spot,  —  it  was 
here  that  I  first  saw  you  on  my  return  to  England.  I 
came  to  seek  the  dead,  and  I  have  thought  since,  it 
was  my  mother's  guardian  spirit  that  drew  me  hither  to 
find  you,  —  the  living!  And  often  afterwards,  Fanny, 
you  would  come  with  me  here,  when,  blinded  and  dull 
as  I  was  I  came  to  brood  and  to  repine,  insensible 
of  the  treasures  even  then  perhaps  Avithin  my  reach. 
But,  best  as  it  was;  the  ordeal  through  which  I  have 
passed  has  made  me  more  grateful  for  the  prize  I  now 
dare  to  hope  for.  On  this  grave  your  hand  daily 
renewed  the  flowers.  By  this  grave,  the  link  between 
the  time  and  the  eternity,  whose  lessons  we  have  read 
together,  will  you  consent  to  record  our  vows?  Fanny, 
dearest,  fairest,  tenderest,  best,  I  love  you,  and  at  last 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  339 

as  alone  you  should  be  loved !  —  I  woo  you  as  my  wife ! 
Mine,  not  for  a  season,  but  forever,  —  forever,  even  when 
these  graves  are  opened,  and  the  world  shrivels  like  a 
scroll.  Do  you  understand  me  ?  Do  you  heed  me  ?  — 
or  have  I  dreamed  that  —  that  —  " 

He  stopped  short ;  a  dismay  seized  him  at  her  silence. 
Had  he  been  mistaken  in  his  divine  belief  1  —  the  fear 
was  momentary;  for  Fanny,  who  had  recoiled  as  he 
spoke,  now  placing  her  hands  to  her  temples,  gazing  on 
him,  breathless,  and  with  lips  apart,  as  if,  indeed, 
with  great  effort  and  struggle  her  modest  spirit  conceived 
the  possibility  of  the  happiness  that  broke  upon  it, 
advanced  timidly,  her  face  suffused  in  blushes,  and, 
looking  into  his  eyes  as  if  she  would  read  into  his  very 
soul,  said,  with  an  accent,  the  intenseness  of  which 
showed  that  her  whole  fate  hung  on  his  answer, — 

"But  this  is  pity!  They  have  told  you  that  T  —  in 
short,  you  are  generous  —  you  —  you  —  oh,  deceive  me 
not!  Do  you  love  her  still?  Can  you  —  do  you  love 
the  humble,  foolish  Fanny?  " 

"  As  God  shall  judge  me,  sweet  one,  I  am  sincere!  I 
have  survived  a  passion,  —  never  so  deep,  so  tender,  so 
entire,  as  that  I  now  feel  for  you!  And  oh,  Fanny, 
hear  this  true  confession!  It  was  you  —  you  to  whom 
my  heart  turned  before  I  saw  Camilla!  —  against  that 
impulse  I  struggled  in  the  blindness  of  a  haughty 
error!  " 

Fanny  uttered  a  low  and  suppressed  cry  of  delight  and 
rapture.     Philip  passionately  continued :  — 

"  Fanny,  make  blessed  the  life  you  have  saved.  Fate 
destined  us  for  each  other.  Fate  for  me  has  ripened 
your  sweet  mind.  Fate  for  you  has  softened  this  rugged 
heart.  We  may  have  yet  much  to  bear  and  much  to 
learn.     We  will  console  and  teach  each  other!  " 


340  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

He  drew  lier  to  his  breast  as  he  spoke,  —  drew  her 
trembling,  blushing,  confused,  but  no  more  reluctant; 
and  there,  by  the  gravk  that  had  been  so  memorable  a 
scene  in  their  common  history,  were  murmured  those 
vows  in  which  all  this  Avorld  knows  of  human  happiness 
is  treasured  and  recorded,  —  love  that  takes  the  sting 
from  grief,  and  faith  that  gives  eternity  to  love.  All 
silent,  yet  all  serene  around  them!  Above,  the  heaven; 
at  their  feet,  the  grave.  For  the  love,  tlie  grave!  —  for 
the  faith,  the  heaven ! 


NIGHT    AND    MORNING.  341 


CHAPTEK   THE   LAST. 

A  labore  reclinat  otium.^  —  Horat. 

I  FEEL  that  there  is  some  justice  in  the  affection  the 
general  reader  entertains  for  the  old-fashioned  and  now 
somewhat  obsolete  custom  of  giving  to  him,  at  the  close 
of  a  work,  the  latest  news  of  those  who  sought  his 
acquaintance  through  its  progress. 

The  weak  but  well-meaning  Smith,  no  more  oppressed 
by  the    evil  influence  of  his  brother,  has  continued  to 
pass  his  days  in  comfort  and  respectability  on  the  income 
settled    on    him    by    Philip    Beaufort.      ]\Ir.    and    ]\Irs. 
Roger  Morton  still   live,  and  have  just  resigned  their 
business  to  their  eldest    son,   retiring    themselves   to  a 
small  villa  adjoining  the  town  in  which  they  had  made 
their  fortune.      Mrs.  Ltorton  is  very  apt,  when  she  goes 
out  to  tea,  to  talk  of  her  dear  deceased  sister-in-law,  the 
late  Mrs.  Beaufort,  and  of  her  own  remarkable  kindness 
to  her  nephew  when  a  little  boy.      She  observes  that, 
in  fact,  the  young  men  owe  everything  to  jNIr.  Eoger  and 
herself;  and,    indeed,    though    Sidney    was   never  of  a 
grateful  disposition,   and  has  not  been  near  her  since, 
yet  the  elder  brother,  the  jVIr.  Beaufort,  always  evinces 
his  respect  to  them  by  the  yearly  present  of  a  fat  buck. 
She  then  comments  on  the  ups  and  downs  of  life,  and 
observes  that   it  is  a  pity    her  son    Tom   preferred  the 
medical    profession  to  the    church.      Their  cousin,  Mr. 
Beaufort,  has  two  livings.     To  all  this  Mr.  Roger  says 

1  Leisure  unbends  itself  from  labor. 


342  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

nothing,  except  an  occasional  "Thank  Heaven,  I  want 
no  man's  help!  I  am  as  well  to  do  as  my  neighbors. 
But  that 's  neither  here  nor  there." 

There  are  some  readers  —  they  who  do  not  thoroughly 
consider  the  truths  of  this  life  —  who  will  yet  ask,  "  But 
how  is  Lord  Lilhurne  punished  1  "  Punished  ?  —  ay ,  and 
indeed,  how?  The  world,  and  not  the  poet,  must  answer 
that  question.  Crime  is  punished  from  without.  If 
vice  is  punished,  it  must  be  from  within.  The  LiL- 
burnes  of  this  hollow  world  are  not  to  be  pelted  with 
the  soft  roses  of  poetical  justice.  They  who  ask  why 
he  is  not  punished,  may  be  the  first  to  doff  the  hat  to 
the  equipage  in  which  my  lord  lolls  through  the  streets! 
The  only  offence  he  habitually  committed  of  a  nature  to 
bring  the  penalties  of  detection  he  renounced  the 
moment  he  perceived  there  was  danger  of  discovery, — 
he  gambled  no  more  after  Philip's  hint.  He  was  one  of 
those,  some  years  after,  most  bitter  upon  a  certain 
nobleman  charged  with  unfair  play,  —  one  of  those 
who  took  the  accusation  as  proved,  and  whose  authority 
settled  all  disputes  thereon. 

But  if  no  thunderbolt  falls  on  Lord  Lilburne's  head, 

—  if  he  is  fated  still  to  eat,  and  drink,  and  to  die  on 
his  bed,  he  may  yet  taste  the  ashes  of  the  Dead  Sea  fruit 
which  his  hands  have  culled.  He  is  grown  old.  His 
infirmities  increase  upon  him;  his  sole  resources  of 
pleasure  —  the  senses  —  are  dried  up.  For  him  there  is 
no  longer  savor  in  the  viands,  or  sparkle  in  the  wine, 

—  man  delights  him  not,  nor  woman  neither.  He  is 
alone  with  old  age,  and  in  sight  of  death. 

With  the  exception  of  )Simon,  who  died  in  his  chair 
not  many  days  after  Sidney's  marriage,  Robert  Beaufort 
is  the  only  one  among  the  more  important  agents  left  at 
the  last  scene  of  this  history  who  has  passed  from  our 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  343 

mortal  stage.  After  the  marriage  of  his  daughter  he 
for  some  time  moped  and  drooped. 

But  Philip  learned  from  Mr.  Blackwell  of  the  will 
that  Robert  had  made  previously  to  the  lawsuit;  and  by 
which,  had  the  lawsuit  failed,  his  rights  would  yet  have 
been  preserved  to  him.  Deeply  moved  by  a  generosity 
he  could  not  have  expected  from  his  uncle,  and  not 
pausing  to  inquire  too  closely  how  far  it  was  to  be  traced 
to  the  influence  of  Arthur,  Philip  so  warmly  expressed 
his  gratitude,  and  so  surrounded  ]\Ir.  Beaufort  with 
afl'ectionate  attentions,  that  the  poor  man  began  to 
recover  his  self-respect,  —  began  even  to  regard  the 
nephew  he  had  so  long  dreaded,  as  a  son,  to  forgive  him 
for  not  marrying  Camilla.  And,  perhaps,  to  his  aston- 
ishment, an  act  in  his  life  which  the  customs  of  the 
world  (that  never  favor  natural  ties  not  previously 
sanctioned  by  the  legal)  would  have  rather  censured 
than  praised,  became  his  consolation,  and  the  memory 
he  was  most  proud  to  recall.  He  gradually  recovered 
his  spirits  ;  he  was  very  fond  of  looking  over  that  will ; 
he  carefully  preserved  it;  he  even  flattered  himself  that 
it  was  necessary  to  preserve  Philip  from  all  possible 
litigation  hereafter ;  for  if  the  estates  were  not  legally 
Philip's,  why,  then,  they  were  his  to  dispose  of  as  he 
pleased.  He  was  never  more  happy  than  when  his 
successor  was  by  his  side,  and  was  certainly  a  more 
cheerful,  and,  I  doubt  not,  a  better  man,  during  the  few 
years  in  which  he  survived  the  lawsuit,  than  ever  he 
had  been  before.  He  died  —  still  member  for  the 
county,  and  still  quoted  as  a  pattern  to  county  members 
—  in  Philip's  arms ;  and  on  his  lips  there  was  a  smile 
that  even  Lilburne  would  have  called  sincere. 

Mrs.  Beaufort,  after  her  husband's  death,  established 
herself  in  London,  and  could  never  be  persuaded  to  visit 


344  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

Beaufort  Court.  She  took  a  companion,  who  more  than 
replace!  in  her  eyes  the  absence  of  Camilla. 

And  Camilla,  Spencer,  Sidney.  They  live  still  by 
the  gentle  lake,  happy  in  their  own  serene  joys  and 
graceful  leisure;  shunning  alike  ambition  and  its  trials, 
action  and  its  sharp  vicissitudes;  envying  no  one, 
covetous  of  nothing;  making  around  them,  in  the  work- 
ing world,  something  of  the  old  pastoral  and  golden 
holiday.  If  Camilla  had  at  one  time  wavered  in  her 
allegiance  to  Sidney,  her  good  and  simple  heart  has 
long  since  been  entirely  regained  by  his  devotion ;  and 
as  might  be  expected  from  her  disposition,  she  loved 
him  better  after  marriage  than  before. 

Philip  had  gone  through  severer  trials  than  Sidney ; 
but  had  their  earlier  fates  been  reversed,  and  that  spirit, 
in  youth  so  haughty  and  self-willed,  been  lapped  in  ease 
and  luxury,  would  Philip  now  be  a  better  or  a  happier 
man?  Perhaps,  too,  for  a  less  tranquil  existence  than 
his  brother,  Philip  yet  may  be  reserved;  but  in  propor- 
tion to  the  uses  of  our  destiny  do  we  repose  or  toil :  he 
who  never  knows  pain ,  knows  but  the  half  of  i)leasure. 
The  lot  of  whatever  is  most  noble  on  the  earth  below, 
falls  not  amidst  the  rosy  gardens  of  the  epicurean.  We 
may  envy  the  man  who  enjoys  and  rests;  but  the  smile 
of  Heaven  settles  rather  on  the  front  of  him  who  labors 
and  aspires. 

And  did  Philip  ever  regret  the  circumstances  that  had 
given  him  Panny  for  the  partner  of  his  life  1  To  some 
who  take  their  notions  of  the  ideal  from  the  conventional 
rules  of  romance,  rather  than  from  their  own  perceptions 
of  what  is  true,  this  narrative  would  have  been  more 
pleasing  had  Philip  never  loved  but  Fanny.  But  all 
that  had  led  to  that  love  had  only  served  to  render  it 
more  enduring  and  concentred.       Man's  strongest   and 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  345 

worthiest  affection  is  his  last,  —  is  the  one  that  unites 
and  embodies  all  his  past  dreams  of  what  is  excellent; 
tlie  one  from  Avhich  hope  springs  out  the  brighter  from 
former  disappointments;  the  one  in  which  the  memories 
are  the  most  tender  and  the  most  abundant;  the  one 
which,  replacing  all  others,  nothing  hereafter  can 
replace. 

And  now,  ere  the  scene  closes,  and  the  audience, 
whom,  perhaps,  the  actors  may  have  interested  for  a 
while,  disperse,  to  forget  amidst  the  pursuits  of  actual 
life  the  shadows  that  have  amused  an  hour  or  beguiled 
a  care,  let  the  curtain  fall  on  one  happy  pictvire :  — • 

It  is  some  years  after  the  marriage  of  Philip  and 
Fanny.  It  is  a  summer's  morning.  In  a  small  old- 
fashioned  room  at  Beaufort  Court,  Avith  its  casements 
open  to  the  gardens,  stood  Philip,  having  just  entered; 
and  near  the  window  sat  Panny,  his  boy  by  her  side. 
She  was  at  the  mother's  hardest  task,  —  the  first  lessons 
to  the  first-born  child ;  and  as  the  boy  looked  up  at  her 
sweet  earnest  face  with  a  smile  of  intelligence  on  his 
own,  you  might  have  seen  at  a  glance  how  well  under- 
stood were  the  teacher  and  the  pupil.  Yes;  whatever 
might  have  been  wanting  in  the  virgin  to  the  full  devel- 
opment of  mind,  the  cares  of  the  mother  had  supplied. 
When  a  being  was  born  to  lean  on  her  alone,  — 
dependent  on  her  providence  for  life,  —  then,  hour  after 
hour,  step  after  step,  in  the  progress  of  infant  destinies, 
had  the  reason  of  the  mother  grown  in  the  child's 
growth,  adapting  itself  to  each  want  that  it  must  foresee, 
and  taking  its  perfectness  and  completion  from  the  breath 
of  the  new  love ! 

The  child  caught  sight  of  Philip,  and  rushed  to 
embrace  him. 


346  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  See !  "  whispered  Fanny,  as  she  also  hung  upon  him, 
and  strange  recollections  of  her  own  mysterious  child- 
hood crowded  upon  her,  —  "  see,"  whispered  she,  with  a 
blush  half  of  shame  and  half  of  pride,  "  the  poor  idiot 
girl  is  the  teacher  of  your  child!  " 

"And,"  answered  Philip,  "whether  for  child  or 
mother,  what  teacher  is  like  love  ?  " 

Thus  saying,  he  took  the  boy  into  his  arms,  and  as 
he  bent  over  those  rosy  cheeks,  Fanny  saw,  from  the 
movement  of  his  lips  and  the  moisture  in  his  eyes,  that 
he  blessed  God.  He  looked  up  on  the  mother's  face, 
he  glanced  round  on  the  flowers  and  foliage  of  the  luxu- 
rious summer,  and  again  he  blessed  God :  and  without 
and  witlnn,  it  was  Light  and  Morning! 


THE   END. 


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